the hollow
by gwendolyn-flight
Summary: Squall has saved the world. He should be happy, now, shouldn't he? Sq/Ir
1. To Cater to the Hollow

This was inspired in equal parts by yaoifantasy's Star Light and by  
a VH1 special on the formation and popularization of "grunge"  
music.   
  
Disclaimer: I do not own FF8 or any characters/storylines contained  
therein. Darn. The song lyrics are copyrighted to any number of   
bands, and I'll include that information as it becomes relevant.   
  
Pairing: Not sure on this one, but I've been itching to try a Squall/Irvine   
ever since Rinoa went bugfuck in space and left Squall to his own   
devices. ;)  
  
The musical style is sort of a cross between A Perfect Circle and   
Ours, only in my little world Squall can sing like a demented Jeff   
Buckley. Don't know who any of these people are? Go get a Napster-  
clone and research!  
  
  
******************************************  
The Hollow  
Chapter One: To Cater to the Hollow  
******************************************  
  
Here's the thing about the music industry.   
  
They *use* people.   
  
You're genuinely depressed and genuinely ready to snap and they fucking   
*market* that as an image.   
  
You're backstage shredding your skin for a pint of sanity, and they make sure that   
someone photographs the scars and broadcasts the details of your "dysfunctional"   
childhood.   
  
You just want to die and they just want to sell the story of your pain.   
  
It's a machine.   
  
Your death would fucking *profit* them.   
  
So no talk of psychiatric counseling, no talk of preventing your suicide/breakdown/  
descent into schizophrenia.   
  
Just the machine.   
  
The machine and the music.   
  
And the music is the only reason you don't just blow it all away.  
***  
  
*******************************************  
Wanted the Ocean to Cover Over Me  
*******************************************  
Dormitory Single #13  
Balamb Garden, Balamb  
1 ALC  
One and One-half Years to the Present   
********************************************  
  
He came in wearing a snug black T-shirt that screamed "Butt Honey" in a stark   
white scrawl, accompanied by the squeak of his customary black leather jeans.   
No one else was home, as per usual, except for his cream and grey cat.   
Apparently summoned by the clank of his keys and the rustle of discarded   
folders and files, she immediately attacked his ankles; he resurrected his weary   
smile as she wove through his legs in a moving figure eight.  
  
"Hey, kitten," he said in his soft monotone, leaning down tiredly to scratch her   
ragged ears. She meowed in response, looking up at him with startling, leaf   
green eyes. "Hungry?"  
  
She meowed again, a sharp, high pitched sound like a dying grat, and trailed   
through his legs toward the kitchen. Well, kitchenette. Okay, half-fridge and   
microwave. He had a sink, at least. And a can opener, of course.  
  
"You'd think the Commander would get better rooms," Squall smirked to the   
cat, leaning down in a jangle of belts to empty the tin of food into a bright   
yellow dish. Kitten meowed her agreement, setting on the food with quick,   
scissoring bites that would, Squall knew from experience, empty the dish   
in a matter of minutes.  
  
He rested there for a moment, gloved hands braced on his knees, before   
arching his back into a painful-sounding stretch. "Waiting for a bottle of truth,"   
he sang absently. "I'm just a lonely guy in my youth . . ." He straightened up,   
letting his back settle with a loud crack. "Waiting for you is all I want to do . . ."   
He trailed off rather suddenly, and moved to the half-fridge, rolling his shoulders   
and rubbing his neck; he crouched before the dim light with another heart-felt   
sigh, a sigh that turned into a groan as he catalogued the contents of the fridge.  
  
"Empty," he said, as though it were a curse. "I'm going to have to go to the   
cafeteria, kitten," he continued dryly. She made a small, inquisitive noise,   
abandoning her food to twine around his knees. He scratched her ears again.  
  
"It won't take long," he reassured her, closing the fridge and standing up. "I'll   
be back before you even miss me."  
  
She followed him to the door, meowing pitiably as he shrugged into his leather   
jacket and hit 'open'. The panel *shush*ed up, and he stepped out into the   
barren hallway. "See you later, kitten," Squall said, letting a tiny smile tug at   
his lips.  
  
"Talking to yourself again, Squally?"  
  
Squall sighed, forcing his face back into his working mask.  
  
"Irvine," he acknowledged the man quietly, turning around. The cowboy was   
smirking at him, an almost lascivious gleam in his clear violet eyes.  
  
"So, you got some chickie in there?" Irvine grinned, raising chestnut brows in   
a sort of mock attempt at mockery. Squall nearly smiled at the familiar routine.  
  
"You want to say hello to Kitten?" he asked, turning back to the door.  
  
"Naw," Irvine shrugged. "You headed to dinner?"  
  
Squall paused, fingers going to the bridge of his nose. He was hungry, but . . .  
  
"No," Squall answered, thumbing the door open again. Kitten meowed eagerly   
from somewhere inside the apartment, actually sounding surprised that he was   
back so soon.  
  
"Hey, wait!" Irvine caught his arm before he could step inside. "You aren't going   
to eat?"  
  
"I'll eat here," he said shortly, trying to wish his arm free. His head was beginning   
to hurt again.  
  
"You don't have any food," Irvine protested. "You never have actual food in there."  
  
" . . ." Squall glared up at Irvine, finally meeting his eyes.  
  
"Come eat," Irvine said softly. "I promise, no one will hassle you tonight."  
  
Squall broke the stare, casting one look into his rooms. Lonely, but . . . alone.  
  
"I don't think so," Squall said, with what he hoped was finality.  
  
"Yeah, well, I do," Irvine grinned, tugging gently at his arm. "C'mon, 'Commander',   
every SeeD needs to keep up his strength!"  
  
"And *her* strength," a voice called down the hall. "Squall giving you trouble again?"  
  
"Hey, Selphie!" Irvine called, waving with his free hand. He'd successfully dragged   
Squall away from the door, which had immediately *shush*ed closed. "Yeah, he's   
sulking again."  
  
"I'm not sulking," Squall said quietly, pulling his arm free. "I don't sulk."  
  
"Sure," Irvine snorted. Selphie giggled at Irvine's expression of doubt, and latched   
onto Squall's other arm. Squall sighed.  
  
"Whatever," he muttered, his eyes closing.  
  
"C'mon," Irvine said, grabbing his other arm again and ignoring the glare Squall   
sent his way. "I've heard they've got hotdogs tonight!"  
  
"I'm not Zell," Squall protested as they lock stepped him through the halls. "*You*   
are not Zell."  
  
"So?" Irvine sailed around a corner, his voice back to its usual careless tones.  
  
"I don't even *like* hotdogs," Squall muttered, almost to himself.  
  
"It'll be okay, Squall," Selphie said, just loud enough for Squall to hear. He turned   
to meet her bright green eyes. Her eyes looked like shallow ocean water, sun-shot   
aqua. "It always works out in the end."  
  
"I don't want to talk about it, Selph," he answered after a moment. "Not yet."  
  
"Hey, what are you two talking about?!" Irvine asked, pasting on an aggrieved look.   
"You bringing Squally-boy down again?"  
  
"Hush, Irvy," Selphie demanded. "It's only been--"  
  
"Three months, fourteen days, and twenty-one hours." Squall broke in quietly. The   
three stopped, Irvine and Selphie turning to look at him incredulously. Squall kept   
his head down, apparently staring raptly at his feet.  
  
Irvine broke first, moving his arm to Squall's shoulder.  
  
"That bad?" he drawled quietly. Squall shrugged.  
  
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "It's fine. I'm fine." And he shrugged off their hands,   
continuing on to the cafeteria.  
  
Selphie and Irvine were left staring blankly at one another. Selphie suddenly broke   
into a scowl.   
  
"I wish I could kill that sorceress bitch," she growled, the anger looking foreign on   
her usually smiling countenance.  
  
"I second that motion," Irvine returned, staring after Squall's retreating back with   
worry in his eyes.  
  
"Is he gonna be okay?" Selphie asked, sounding very young just then.  
  
Irvine nodded, smiling reassuringly. "Yeah, kiddo. He'll be fine. He just keeps losing   
people, is all. I thought, this time . . ."  
  
"Bitch . . ." Selphie muttered, apparently unable to think of another, sufficiently   
derogatory word to describe the sorceress.  
  
"Yeah, we all hope Rinoa rots in hell for that one."  
  
"Hopefully, she already is."  
  
They both paused to appreciate the thought in full Technicolor daydreams.  
  
"Let's go, darlin'," Irvine said after a moment. "I don't trust Squall to get there on his   
own."   
  
"Can you really blame him, though?" Selphie asked, kicking at the tiles as they   
walked along. "I mean, he really cared about her . . . Her death nearly destroyed   
him."  
  
"It may yet destroy him." Irvine said grimly. "It may yet."  
***  
  
A/N Well, that seemed like a good place to end; I do so love dramatic revelations. :)  
  
Time is obviously very important in this one, as I'll be skipping around a lot. So pay  
attention! Those time/location tags are there for a reason!  
  
Hmm, lets play the 'What's been changed?' game! This is an AU, but it all stems   
from the question: "How would Squall have turned out if Ellone hadn't gone to the  
orphanage with him? If he hadn't had a Sis to lose?" And things snowballed from  
there. So anything that seems OOC has its purpose. Patience, grasshopper, all   
will be revealed in time. For enough reviews, I'll post some more! Preview of  
coming attractions: Rinoa's death, in-scene battles, Squall's father revealed  
through science, Irvine's philosophy on life, and more! :)  
  
Credits: Song lyrics taken from "Black" by Pete Yorn. Chapter subtitles taken from  
"Round Here" and "Time and Time Again" by the Counting Crows, and from "The  
Hollow" by A Perfect Circle.  
  
One line was stolen from an episode of "Due South"; whoever finds it get a cookie! 


	2. Where the Ocean Meets the Land

This is sort of a transitional chapter between those of more recent events;  
the flashbacks are mainly important in routing the changes caused by   
Ellone's absence.  
  
  
***************************************  
The Hollow Chapter Two  
Where the Ocean Meets the Land  
***************************************  
The Lighthouse Orphanage  
13 Before Lunar Cry (BLC)  
Fifteen Years to the Present  
***************************************  
  
The waves were riding high that night.   
  
The wind had carried in a swift-winged squall, borne on the backs of roiling,   
purple clouds. The sea for a time was divided almost perfectly between open   
sky and the gathering storm, until the rain arrived.   
  
Edea Lyn Kramer was standing waist-deep in the sluggish waves-- the sea   
had been glassy-smooth not an hour before-- when the sky opened above   
her and began to weep. The waves were rising, and the rain was a mere   
spattering of cold upon the warm sea. So she stayed. It was a fun game, to   
jump the waves, and battle the rising sea for a dubious position in the sand.   
The children were safe inside, and so, alone, she reveled in the power of the   
sea.  
  
A far-off wind was pushing the waves, driving them into the shore; it caught   
her after a jump, the cold, steady breeze cutting straight into her lungs.   
Lightning crackled across the sky, and somewhere in the distance thunder   
rolled. She had to leap, almost desperately, to clear the next wave's crest,   
and lacked the strength to do more than dive through the one after.   
  
She stood, clearing salt water from her eyes with rapid flicks of one hand,   
using the other to push back her cascade of ebon hair. The cycle had ended,   
and the next wave was easily jumped. She floated a bit, catching her breath,   
watching the storm rise in the east. The part of the sky that had not been   
overtaken by clouds had turned an odd jade color. The clouds themselves   
looked angry, the color of a bruise. It was time to go in.  
  
Sand dragged at her toes, and she sighed, utterly exhausted, as she reached   
her clothes. She pulled on her oversized raglan sweater, turning to watch the   
downpour chase toward her across the far sea. The waves would be twelve   
spans or more within minutes. The sea would dredge up its dead whether she   
willed it or not. She rubbed a towel through her long black hair, and started up   
the path to the lighthouse, turning her back on the sea.  
  
***  
  
By the time she had washed and changed, it was pouring. The world was a   
jade curtain through the streaked-spotty windows. Two of the children were  
curled up in one of the beds when she came down, cowering together. The   
wind sounded like a howling geezard, and the thunder was making even her   
flinch.   
  
"Zell?" She said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Quistis relaxed her hold,   
letting the blond boy raise his head. He sniffled, and smiled.  
  
"Matron!" he said happily. She smiled gently in return, still toweling water from   
her hair.  
  
"Are you frightened, Zell?" she asked, dropping the towel to cup his cheek in her   
hands. He was four, probably, and utterly adorable.  
  
"No!" he said insistently, shaking his head so vigorously that his blond hair puffed   
out like chocobo feathers. She smiled again, and smoothed down his hair.  
  
"It's okay to be afraid, Zell," she admonished gently. "Everyone is afraid sometimes.   
You just have to make sure that fear doesn't keep you from doing what's right."  
  
"It's okay, Matron," Quistis spoke up, her blue eyes very serious. "I'll look after him   
until he grows out of it. I used to be afraid of storms, too."  
  
"That's right," Edea laughed. "I had forgotten. Okay, then. You two stay here until   
I finish with dinner."  
  
"Dinner?" Zell asked, struggling from beneath Quistis' hold. "Can we have hotdogs?   
Can we?!?!?"  
  
"Alright!" Edea smiled, kneeling down to ruffle Zell's yellow hair. "Hotdogs it is.   
Now go wash up," she said, standing. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."  
  
The other children perked up at her announcement; Irvine dropped his stash of   
building blocks and ran for the washroom. Seifer chased after him, yelling "Me first!   
Me first!" Selphie looked up from her sketch pad, threw her pen across the room,   
and scrambled to catch up to the boys, hollering wordlessly for no apparent reason.   
Edea sighed, and stood to follow.  
  
She was halfway to the kitchen when she heard a sound at the door.  
  
Zell had burrowed back under the blankets, and Quistis was staring wide-eyed at   
the whitewashed door. The knock came again. Edea swallowed, knowing exactly   
what type of men might be about on a night like this.   
  
Sometimes she wished Cid weren't so fucking noble. She'd rather have him *here*.  
  
"Please!" Came a voice.  
  
She couldn't be sure, but the voice sounded male, and weak. She swallowed again,   
and opened the door.  
  
Quistis screamed, and a man fell inside with a gust of rain; Edea fell beneath him,   
too startled to make a sound and unable to support his weight. A wash of blood   
immediately stained the floor and her blouse.  
  
"Please." He said again, quietly this time, before going utterly still.  
  
"No," Edea whispered, fighting to roll him over and off of her. He was too heavy,   
and she was too tired from fighting the waves all afternoon. Finally she tipped   
him onto his back with a thump.  
  
Rain was still pouring through the open door; she ignored it for the moment,   
dragging him further inside. His blood left a broad streak across the flagstones.   
She grimaced, and knelt beside him, checking for the wound that had killed him.  
  
"Matron?"  
  
"Aah!" she screamed, startled, and jumped back. Quistis screamed too, and ran   
back to the bed. "Quistis!" Edea gasped, her hand over her heart. "Don't startle   
me like that!" She breathed for a moment, watching a contrite Quistis play with   
Zell's hair, before turning back to the body.   
  
The man had probably been handsome once, but death had robbed him of all   
color, and the rain had soaked him until his mane of hair was a tangled, muddy   
mess. His clothes, cheap and familiar but well-made, had been shredded by   
what looked like claws, but what had probably been army blades. Through the   
tears, she could just make out the edges of a gaping wound . . .  
  
She turned away, hand over her mouth. The man had been disemboweled.   
  
Gutted.  
  
How he'd kept his intestines from spilling into the dirt, she would never learn.  
  
She staggered to the door, staring blindly out into the rain. Oh Hyne, the wind   
sounded like a child's cries. She gasped for breath, cringing when a small   
hand was slipped into her own.  
  
"What is it, Zell?" she asked, her voice wavering.  
  
"Do you hear that?" he said, very quiet and very serious.   
  
"Hear what, Zell?" she asked, voice tired.  
  
"Sounds like crying."  
  
"It's just the wind, Zell." she said wearily, moving to close the door. Zell was   
getting wet. He made a small sound of frustration and tugged her hand, so   
unlike his usual displays of pique that she looked down into his bright blue   
eyes.  
  
"It sounds like a boy," he insisted. "A boy like me. He sounds afraid."  
  
" . . . Okay," she said slowly, still staring into his eyes. "I'll go outside and   
look. Go get back in bed with Quisty, okay?"  
  
"Kay," he grinned easily, reassured by her acceptance, and toddled off.   
  
She cast about the room, avoiding the man's body, until she found her cloak;   
she swung it about her shoulders, lit the lantern, and headed for the door.  
  
"Now you two be good," she said. "Quistis, you're in charge."  
  
And she was gone.  
***  
***   
Moments later Seifer returned from the kitchen; he sauntered into the room--  
as much as any five-year-old *can* saunter-- and over to the bed.  
  
"Hiding from the rain, Chicken-wuss?" he asked snidely. Quistis glared down   
at him, shielding Zell within her small arms.  
  
"Shut up, Seifer! Matron left me in charge, so you'd better do as I say!"  
  
"Or what?" he sneered. "And what do you mean, left you in charge? Where'd   
she go?"  
  
"When's dinner?!" Selphie moaned, entering the room. "I'm *starving*!"  
  
"Hush! Matron's gone looking for something," Quistis said sternly.  
  
"What in Hyne's name is *that*?!" Irvine shouted, stumbling into the room.  
  
"Irvine Kinneas! Don't swear!"  
  
"But--" the boy protested, pointing at the body. Seifer and Selphie turned to   
look at the corpse, both wrinkling their noses.   
  
"Where did *that* some from?" Seifer asked, brows furrowed petulantly.  
  
"He just came in and fell over," Quistis said reasonably. "I don't know who he   
is, and Matron didn't seem to know him either."  
  
"Should we move him?" Irvine asked quietly, chewing on the ragged hem of   
his t-shirt.  
  
"He's too big," Quistis said, rolling her eyes. "Matron couldn't even move him."  
  
"I'm hungry," Selphie moaned.   
  
"Matron will come back soon, right?" Irvine asked, dropping the hem of his tee   
in order to hug himself.  
  
Then the door was flung open again, rain bursting in upon a breath of wind. The   
children shrieked and jumped back. Matron staggered inside.  
  
"Quistis!" she shouted, carefully lowering her burden to the floor. "Get me some   
blankets, honey, okay?"  
  
"Kay, Matron," Quistis said, jumping up and running to the hall closet.  
  
"What is it?" Seifer asked, edging closer to the water-soaked bundle. Matron   
was tearing at the cloth, and seemed not to hear the green-eyed boy.  
  
"Come on," she muttered, splitting a seam with a ragged ripping sound, like   
the cloth had been rotten. A small arm, limp and porcelain-pale, spilled out of   
the fabric. Seifer jerked and stepped back, but the arm didn't move. The skin   
was almost translucent, the blue veins clearly visible, and covered with chocobo-  
bumps.  
  
"Here, Matron," Quistis said proudly, dropping an arm-full of rough woolen   
blankets at Matron's feet. She nodded quickly, grimacing as she ripped apart   
another tangled bit of cloth.  
  
"Oh!" Seifer breathed as the boy's face was revealed. He looked dead, he   
was so pale, but his eyes were moving about beneath their lids, and his lips   
were blue, and trembling with cold. His chocolate-colored hair was plastered   
to his skull, and his cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice through the skin.   
  
"He's beautiful."  
  
Matron didn't hear him, busy ripping another seam; the cloth split open like   
butterfly wings, baring a thin, pale chest. The boy wore a chain around his neck,   
hung with a man's ring and a sharp-edged pendant that had cut into his fair skin.   
Blood streaked the moon-pale flesh, and had dried to a gummy black crust on   
the pendant. Matron tsked, moving the chain aside gently.  
  
"Help me with him, Seifer," Edea said, gathering the bared body into her arms.   
The small limbs flopped about helplessly, and Seifer bit his lip sadly for a moment.   
"Spread out that blanket," she directed, gently chafing the boy's back as Seifer   
followed her instructions. "And Quistis, for Hyne's sake, close the door before we   
all catch our deaths."  
  
"Yes, Matron," Quistis called, skipping over to the door. Oh how she loved to be   
helpful.  
  
"Irvine, sweetheart, do you think you can get me some water?" Edea said,   
wishing she dared ask the four-year-old to heat it for her as she examined the   
shallow cuts. "In the bucket, okay?"  
  
"Kay, Matron," Irvine said quietly, still very pale as he edged out of the room,   
refusing to look at the man's body.   
  
"Seifer, go and help him carry it. Quistis, I need some rags, can you find some   
for me?"  
  
"Rags?"  
  
"Clean ones, okay? From the closet."  
  
"I'll find some!" Quistis smiled, bustling off cheerily. Zell lay forgotten, burrowed   
as he was in the bed, and Selphie sat miserably by the door to the kitchen,   
rocking back and forth and holding her stomach.  
  
"Okay, sweetheart," Edea murmured, gathering the naked boy into her arms   
again. "We're going to get you clean, and warm, and then you'll be just fine,   
alright?" She kept up her low-voiced reassurance, more for the other children   
than for this wounded boy; he was beyond hearing, for now.   
  
She wrapped him in a blanket, gently chafing his fragile limbs; the pendant and   
ring clanked tinnily, and she reached to unfasten them with an annoyed scowl.   
Her fingers, wet and aching from her time in the storm, were fumbling numbly   
with the clasp when the boy woke.   
  
He stirred weakly, eyes slitting open to reveal a half-moon of color; his mouth   
opened, closed, and one arm raised itself above the blanket. She smiled, a bit   
startled, but nonetheless prepared with her usual, calming routine. Her fingers   
stirred on the chain--  
  
--and the boy *screamed*. She jerked back, eyes going wide, and he stilled.   
His eyes rolled a bit in their sockets, still showing little more than a sliver of   
cloudy blue, and his hand fell back to his side.  
  
"Sweetheart?" She whispered, smoothing a hand across his damp brow. But   
he didn't move again, and she was hesitant to touch the chain-- even as an   
experiment.  
  
Irvine and Seifer returned with the water not long after, and she cleaned the boy   
around the pendant and ring. The boy didn't stir again that night, not even when   
Zell climbed into bed with him. She left the two of them there, curled securely   
against the night, as she went to drag the body outside.   
  
Well, she'd been right about one thing. This storm had certainly dredged up the   
dead.   
***  
  
A/N This was originally to be the prologue, but it just didn't read right without the  
Squall-Kitten scene tacked onto the end. ::sigh:: Confession time: I actually  
have over fifty pages of material for this. It's just in a terrible jumble is all, so  
posting will slow as editing becomes more difficult. Reviews would help, of  
course. ;) 


	3. The Fall of a Sparrow

This is the beginning of the Irvine Arc, which will run about 2-3 chapters  
and lead into the Laguna Arc, which is very important and will lead into  
the Rinoa's Suicide Arc. All of that gets us to the Squall-in-a-Band Arc.  
Are we clear? Good. Perhaps I should post a timeline . . . Nah.  
  
Sorry this took so long, I've been through a few RL crises. Grr.   
  
***************************************************  
the hollow   
Chapter Three: The Fall of a Sparrow  
***************************************************  
***************************************************  
Till Sleeping Voices Wake Us  
***************************************************  
Balamb Garden  
1 BLC  
Two and Three-quarter Years to the Present  
***************************************************  
Impassive violet eyes met his own stern glare from beneath the   
rim of a cowboy hat.  
  
It sounds funny, but at the time it wasn't.  
  
Cid was blathering on about their new mission, which was utterly   
pointless since they'd been given briefing folders; Squall did hate   
it when old people droned on and on with no apparent purpose. So   
he stared at their new companion instead.  
  
Companion. He hated that word. As though their tiny company of   
recent graduates (fresh meat, the more experienced SeeDs called   
them) socialized or chatted or had bonded over adventure. He didn't   
have companions.  
  
The cowboy was tall, maybe as tall as Seifer, and so would hold the   
advantage in hand-to-hand. He was a sharpshooter, though, so it   
was possible that he's never studied fighting the way that Squall had.   
He was the peculiar faded golden color of a tan that hadn't seen the   
sun in awhile. His eyes were violet.  
  
Okay, so that part bore repeating.  
  
Squall fought the urge to fidget as the cowboy(Irvine, Shiva reminded   
him) sauntered over to join their neat little row. Somehow that saunter   
looked familiar. Like a remnant of a dream, and yet very like something   
he saw every day . . . Seifer!  
  
And there was a definite resemblance between the two; not physically,   
but in that confident stride, the fuck-you set of the shoulders, the gleaming   
parti-colored eyes. Squall scowled, and broke their shared glare as the   
cowboy stepped into their line.   
  
Next to him, Rinoa was practically panting. Selphie was drooling. Only   
Quistis seemed unmoved, but then she'd always been compared to an   
iceberg. The Ice Queen and her Prince. That was him. He hunched a   
shoulder, turned his head away from the cowboy(Irvine) and sighed.  
  
A lost memory niggled. A synapse fired, sputtered, died. Nothing.  
  
" . . . Squall?"  
  
In the monotone lecture sounded his name; his head came up, though   
his expression didn't change. Cid was staring at him. He shrugged.  
  
"So you understand your objectives?" Cid probed, looking faintly miffed.   
Squall suppressed a second shrug.  
  
"Whatever," he said quietly, making no attempt to apologize. As if he'd   
ever wanted this.  
  
"Yes, sir!" Selphie chirped quickly, bringing one hand to her brow in a   
cheerful salute. The others murmured agreement, the cowboy(Irvine)   
making an odd motion with his right hand that looked vaguely ritualistic.   
  
"Very well," Cid said, false heartiness showing in his clasped hands and   
faintly-astonished eyes. "Good bye, my children, and good luck."  
  
Everyone chorused thank you, except for Squall, who simply turned to   
leave.  
  
He could hear someone, Selphie perhaps, yelling after him in distinctive,   
whiny tones.  
  
Whatever.  
  
He didn't need this. Companions.  
  
Companions?  
  
Fuck that. He was the Lionheart.   
  
He always worked alone.  
  
  
  
**************************************************  
Wait for the Hunger to Come  
**************************************************  
Deep Sea Research Facility  
1 BLC  
Two and Three-quarter Years to the Present  
***************************************************  
  
He floated in an endless sea of darkness, cocooned in something so   
unchangeable it didn't acknowledge time. He was content; he was   
conscious of being content.  
  
Everything was as it should be.  
  
He was asleep and dreaming.  
  
He was floating naked in the womb.  
  
He was--  
  
Dead.  
  
Even the realization brought no disturbance to the void. He floated.   
Perhaps time passed. He neither knew nor cared. This was all. This   
was everything. This was peace.  
  
He knew peace.  
  
Perhaps time passed.  
  
Then a sudden light pierced that realm of shadow. He turned away,   
his first voluntary movement, but the light expanded, grew stronger,   
cast shadows and harsh relief in his darkling void, dragging him   
back into life. Pain. Light.  
  
It bathed him in glory and hell, a shaft of light drifting feathers like   
lumined dust-motes on a summer's afternoon, in a Fira-spell sharp   
coaxing into life. Full-life. Rare stuff, expensive. They must be doing   
poorly.  
  
He dragged himself up and out of sleeping death, climbing onto shaky   
legs with barely a missed beat. All you can do is hope some stroke of   
luck keeps you alive long enough to kill the fucking beast.  
  
Which battle is this again?  
  
He shook his head to clear it, fending off a blow and darting out to   
counter Ultima Weapon's massive sword while riffling through his   
spells for something useful. Multitasking was absolutely vital in this   
line of work.   
  
Lionheart connected with armored flesh on the downward swing,   
gouging a furrow that spattered his leathers with blood. The beast   
roared, a hell-damned shriek, and reared back as Irvine cast Ultima   
and Zell disappeared, making way for Quezacotl. Squall darted back   
into the protective field, readying a Curaga for the inevitable injury.  
  
Then the Thunder god took his place on this plane, shivering him into   
a place of safety. A place remarkably familiar. A place he visited   
every time he let his guard down.  
  
The battle was remote for the moment. Distant. For these few seconds   
he was the only person in existence. Had he been corporeal, he would   
have fallen to the ground and curled up in a ball of agony. Here, the pain   
was just as distant as the lightning crackling the flesh of a lesser god. A   
shadow. Waiting.  
  
He'd been cleaved by a sword longer than his own body. He'd been flung   
into immediate blackness unrelieved by any mockery of an afterlife. He'd   
known peace. And then he'd been dragged back into life. Oh, and he'd   
been fully healed with magic.   
  
Magic heals. It does. It knits together torn flesh, reweaves sinews, pieces   
together splintered bone. In fact, the only thing it can't do is replace lost   
blood, or fully heal a head injury. Even Doc Kadowaki wasn't sure why   
neurological damage interfered with the magic. Hyne, even a severed   
spinal cord bridged the gap with no complaint. But all the forcing together   
of synapses in the world couldn't put things exactly right.   
  
This wasn't a head injury. He'd get over it, eventually. So what if the mind   
remembers pain far longer than the muscles? Phantom pain. Nothing he   
couldn't work through. Nothing he hadn't worked through a thousand times   
before.  
  
But was it so wrong? To want to heal of a piece, slowly, the way everyone   
else does? To want something to stop the pain? Is that so wrong?  
  
*  
  
And back! The ground hummed with residual electricity; it shivered up   
his heels to his spine as he wavered back onto the cavern floor. Ultima   
Weapon was sore hurt, but Zell had been laid out by another swipe of   
that sword. Squall cast his Curaga, trusting Irvine to hit the beast with   
*something* while he was occupied.  
  
But nothing happened. Zell staggered to his feet, and was brought   
down instantly by a shrilling blast of light. Squall hit him with a Phoenix   
Down, desperate now, only to see the Martial Artist waver beneath a   
simple stroke of that fucking sword. And Full-life, damn the cost, cast   
while looking over his shoulder for the smiling cowboy.   
  
Irvine was down.   
  
Ultima Weapon made a sudden move as if to cast another lance of light;   
Zell screamed something unintelligible, and called Quezacotl once again   
as Squall threw a Full-life at Irvine, barely breathing until it took effect.  
  
Irvine rolled to his feet just as the Light took out Quezacotl; the Guardian   
Force took the death blow for Zell, dropping him back into the fight, bereft.   
  
One down.  
  
Shiva rustled at the back of his mind; Irvine cast an Ultima spell, drawn   
from the beast itself, and Squall called his Ice goddess in a rush of glacier   
wind.  
  
Back into the void he went, as she came instantly to his call, mind still   
more on Zell's safety than on the battle; losing a Guardian Force, even   
temporarily, did something to one's mind. It *hurt*.   
  
Shiva conjured her northern domain; the beast screamed, but Squall kept   
his eye on Zell as they shimmered back into the cavern. Irvine cast something   
behind him, and Zell gave him a grinning thumbs up. Squall turned back to   
the beast, counting on the ice to have slowed it, and--  
  
The sword tore into his side. It splintered ribs, crushed organs, split muscle,   
tore through his leathers like paper, and hurled him to his knees. He could   
hear screaming. It was not his own. He climbed to his feet, waving Irvine   
away when the cowboy would have cast a healing spell; he was waiting.  
  
He darted forward on feet that felt like lead but moved with all his usual   
power and grace; his body was not trained to acknowledge injury. He   
swung a crippled blow that nevertheless landed true. Lionheart shattered   
a canine, ripped a furrow in snarling lips. He fell back, holding his elbows   
close in to protect his side.  
  
Ultima Weapon was silent. The three friends exchanged one nervous glance.   
It was all they had time for. In the ominous vacuum, a small dot appeared, like   
an expanding hole in midair.   
  
"It's casting Gravija!" Irvine yelled, throwing up a Protect at the last moment,   
forgetting that it would do little against a magical attack. The hole became a   
tunnel, somehow concave in shape; it bowed outward with a sound like the   
warping of Balamb's supports in midwinter, grew again in diameter, and was   
suddenly filled with a multitude of lights like a contained galaxy.  
  
Squall panted, readied Shiva, and it hit him.  
  
He'd been to space. He'd floated helpless through a vacuum that threatened   
to destroy him at the least mistake. He'd lived with the awareness that the   
smallest imperfection in his helmet or suit could result in explosive   
decompression. He'd been informed of the properties of vacuum in graphic   
detail, told with gleaming eyes of oxygen boiled from the blood like bubbles   
to the surface of the ocean.  
  
He'd never imagined that he'd find out exactly how that felt.  
  
Pain ripped through him; he'd never been crushed into roughly the diameter   
of a Chocobo egg, but this was definitely a similar sensation. It rolled through   
him, compressing every fiber into nothing so that they sprang back tangled   
and worn with the spell's passing. He shook it off, called Shiva again, and   
disappeared into the painless black.  
  
It would be nice to stay there.  
  
Shiva screamed, somewhere in his head, down in the hippocampus or   
outward in the cortex where his long term memory should be. He was   
dumped back into reality, side blazing, Guardian dead. Irvine called   
Pandemona, and Squall took another hit from that sword, just before the   
beast was torn through with a whirlwind. He almost went down, riding out   
Irvine's summoning in a cloud of pain that penetrated even the protective   
plane.  
  
When he returned, Zell was in the midst of a Meltdown; their first action,   
after drawing the coveted GF, had been the casting of this spell, but its   
effects had apparently worn off. The beast roared, and glowed briefly,   
and Squall felt it come upon him.  
  
His Limit Break.  
  
The pain vanished, and he lunged forward, slashing into flesh once, and   
again, and again, six times all told; he darted back , more alert than he'd   
been in days, feeling the energy crest beneath his breastbone and he   
channeled it straight up into the atmosphere, a shattering beam of light   
that he drew forward into the beast, dividing it with its own favored weapon.  
  
The energy left him with the final blow; he staggered, and readied a   
Thundaga as Zell hit him with a healing spell that he honestly didn't want.   
He straightened up, eyes still fixed on the beast, and it . . . Was glowing   
again. Irvine paused while casting Ultima, letting the spell fizzle to nothing   
as the beast staggered,   
  
moaned,   
  
and flew apart.  
  
Their death was almost always a surprise.  
  
The concussion flung him to the ground; he struck his barely-healed ribs,   
and nearly passed out as the dying beast tore itself to pieces somewhere   
over his head. The grim sight was tinted red. Then everything was silent.  
  
The world was fuzzy and indistinct for a time; he was distantly aware of   
Irvine staggering to his feet. Zell wasn't moving, and Irvine went to him first.   
The bright flare of a Curaga caused Squall to squint and tilt his head to the   
side; even that brief effort left him drained.  
  
Everything was quiet, mostly.  
  
There was something with him. Inside his head.  
  
Irvine sauntered over, Zell in tow; both had been wounded, the blood  
--blood--   
streaking their clothes was proof enough, even without the languor of usually-  
energetic strides. But they were healed now.  
  
The blood.   
  
Various somethings jostled about for room inside his tattered cortex, like   
the faint rustlings of a distant wind.  
  
The blood.  
  
Irvine's hand on his brow redirected his attention to his companions; he   
glared up with glazed eyes, pupils dilated so that Irvine was confronted   
with just a thin rim of silvered blue. The color of the ocean just before a   
sunset storm.  
  
Irvine smiled down at him. Squall was at quite a loss as to why, but managed   
to tilt the corner of his mouth in reply. Irvine raised a chestnut brow, said   
something, and Squall was suddenly bathed in siren-song blue.  
  
The Curaga arced through him, arched his back in a painful bow, thumped   
his head against the ground; then it was over, his wounds knit to ragdoll health,   
and he slumped bonelessly down. Irvine was grinning at him faintly. Squall   
just glared up at him and breathed.  
  
"You have him, right?" Irvine asked, holding out one hand; the tipped gloves   
were bloody, but the exposed pads of his fingers were clean. Squall had time   
to wonder about this detail as he took the lean hand and levered himself to   
his feet. Time was limping behind him.  
  
"She," he said absently, turning the hand over in his grip to examine the clean   
stripe of leather where the rifle grip had blocked any blood. "Her name is Eden."  
  
"Okay," Irvine said, sounding somewhat bemused as he stared down at the   
Commander's blood-matted hair. Squall had still not relinquished the cowboy's   
hand, and was now staring intently at the blood itself, which was already gumming   
to black in the fine grain of the leather. Squall raised the hand and ducked his   
head, nearing the bloodied hand with the delicacy of a cat. Irvine jerked, then   
stilled. "You   
okay, Squall?"  
  
"Hmm?" Squall's head came up; his eyes focused on Irvine, pinning for a moment   
before steadying into a swirl of blue, and he dropped the blood-soaked hand.   
His tongue teased from the corner of his mouth, wetting his lips as he stared up   
at Irvine from beneath a jagged fringe of bloodied bangs. "Have we finished?"  
  
"Hey, Squall, did you hit your head or something?" Zell asked from a few feet away,   
crackling a concerned energy even from the distance. Squall grimaced, losing the   
faintly wistful expression and rubbing at his scar with his gloved fingers. The leather   
left a smear of blood, and Irvine itched to attack Squall with spit and cloth. Squall   
was glaring at him.  
  
"Yes, sir, Commander, sir?" Irvine asked innocently, removing his battered hat   
and jerking into "at attention". Squall rolled his eyes.  
  
"I said, we're leaving," Squall repeated, obviously annoyed at the necessity as   
he led the way to the foot of the mountainous walkway they had descended with   
such difficulty. Squall strode forward with something like his usual energy, hips   
working liquidly beneath black leather. Irvine stared after him for a moment.  
  
Something wasn't right.  
  
"Hey, Zell," Irvine drawled, snagging the martial artist as he passed and throwing   
one long arm around his shoulders. "D'ya think you could talk to Diablos about   
Enc-None, possibly?" he asked with a winning smile.  
  
"I suppose," Zell said doubtfully. "But why? We just kicked the most powerful   
ass on the planet!"  
  
"And that's why Squally-boy doesn't need to be tiring himself on the odd Ruby   
Dragon or Iron Giant, get me?" Irvine said quietly, keeping a careful eye on   
Squall's rigid back.  
  
"Oh," Zell nodded with something of a knowing air. "I get it. Sure, Irvine. No   
problem."  
  
If Squall retained any suspicions about their quiet hike to sea level, he didn't   
mention them.   
  
Somehow, the way down hadn't seemed quite so long as the way up; Irvine just   
stared wordlessly at the destruction left in their wake, the torn steel girders and   
sheet metal ripped and melted into slag. Ahead of him, Squall's shoulders were   
tight, his neck bowed slightly, his steps short and quick. He seemed almost to be   
arguing with himself. Zell trudged somewhere behind Irvine, his energy spent on a   
brief shadobox at their first sign of sunlight some levels down.  
  
Squall paused for a half-second, shook his head, and moved on.  
  
Irvine would have missed the moment if he hadn't been watching Squall so closely.  
  
Ahead of him, Squall's shoulders were tense beneath worn leather, ready to draw   
Lionheart at any moment, practically humming with energy. His stride was long, his   
head up, his attention focused on the trail. All was as usual. That should have been   
reassuring. Irvine bit back an expletive, cutting his lip in the process.  
  
Squall had just junctioned the new beastie.  
  
"Damnit, Squall," Irvine murmured to himself. "We agreed to wait." They were   
supposed to *wait*, at least until hitting the surface, at least until they could   
*discuss* who would junction the most powerful Guardian Force on the planet.  
  
If this had been Seifer, Irvine would have just assumed that he'd taken the GF for   
his own betterment, shrugged knowingly, and then thought little of it. But this was   
*Squall* . . .  
  
Irvine couldn't shake the thought that somehow, Squall hadn't exactly *chosen* to   
complete that junction.  
  
***  
  
A/N Mwahahaha! I feel evil after that ending. Chapter title taken from Hamlet,  
Act 5 Scene 2. First subtitle taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J.   
Alfred Prufrock" and the second from "Catapult" by the Counting Crows.   
You might actually want to keep track of that first scene, as it will be continued   
at a later time(In "And We Drown") for thematic purposes, in order to explain   
Squall's behavior just before that behavior becomes vitally important. Capishe? 


	4. I've Got the Greatest View From Here

This is part two of the Irvine Arc, which leads into the Laguna Arc which   
leads into the Rinoa-suicide Arc. It's all very simple. :) Note on the time,   
when I chose to divide years into quarters I didn't really realize how poorly   
it would flow. Don't worry, one quarter of a year hasn't passed. It's been   
about a week, but we have cycled into the second quarter.  
  
You may be wondering about the ultimate purpose of this arc. Well, I'm  
setting up a situation in which Squall in psychologically devastated,  
and Irvine has repeatedly proven that he's there for him. This is one  
of those occasions in which Irvine gets to prove his level of   
commitment, and also provides a nice Eden subplot.  
  
********************************************  
I've Got the Greatest View From Here  
Centra Ruins  
1 BLC  
Two and One-half Years to the Present  
*********************************************  
They were wandering the plains; had been, for who knows how long.   
Just him, and Zell, and Squall, of course. Thank Hyne the girls were still   
at Balamb, not that he wouldn't like to have Selphie's Full-Cure or Quistis'   
healing Blue Magic right about now. They had defeated Ultima Weapon   
perhaps yesterday, perhaps three days before.   
  
Time was a difficult thing to keep a grasp on.   
  
He was running low on Cures, himself, but Squall had topped up hours ago,   
and was currently Junctioning like there was no tomorrow, experimenting   
with different combinations of magics and apparently trying to max out his   
connection with Eden.  
  
Zell was curled up in the Tent moaning about hotdogs. Probably still asleep.  
  
Irvine cast one final Cure on himself, shivering as the tingling rush of healing   
energy coursed through him like a bad sugar high, then flopped onto his back   
with a massive groan, stretching out his legs until his toes curled and settling   
his hat over his eyes. He was definitely ready for a nap.  
  
Except Squall was still moving; full dark, beasties roaming about, a Tent set   
up and ready for occupation, and still the Commander was working. Irvine   
sighed. That boy needed a rest. Or an emergency stick-up-ass removal.  
  
"I want to take you tomorrow . . ." A quiet voice hummed, so low that Irvine   
thought for a moment that he might have imagined it. The melancholy tune   
continued wordlessly; Irvine levered himself up onto his elbows, tipping   
back the brim of his hat to watch the Commander.  
  
Squall was polishing his gunblade, Junctioning apparently complete for the   
night; Lionheart had been streaked in blood and ichor of varying colors, but   
under the whetstone it began to gleam again, rasped to a razor-edge. Squall   
continued to hum as he worked, probably not even realizing it, his smile faint   
as the ripple on a pond as he sighted down the length of the blade.  
  
"What's that you're singing?" Irvine asked softly. Squall stopped abruptly, and   
looked up, hands frozen in the firelight; he shrugged. "And don't give me that   
'whatever' crap, Squally-boy."  
  
"Don't call me that," Squall said tonelessly, running the whetstone down the   
blade and wiping the steel with a cloth, repeating the cycle, then again.  
  
Irvine just nodded, as though confirming something to himself.  
  
The fire crackled in the stretch of silence, spread in the ebon of Ragnorak's   
shadow.  
  
"Do you remember," Irvine said suddenly. "Do you remember the orphanage?"  
  
Squall's hands stilled again. "Yeah," he said as he resumed his steady rhythm.  
  
"I thought so," Irvine replied quietly, staring up at the distant stars. "Did you   
ever wonder?" he continued, carefully, as though musing aloud. "What it would   
be like? To have a father? A mother?"  
  
Squall stopped again, this time pausing to stare into the polished steel for a   
long moment; Irvine thought for a time that he wouldn't answer, but then he   
actually met Irvine's violet gaze and spoke.  
  
"No. I don't think about it."  
  
And for the life of him Irvine couldn't figure out why Squall was answering,   
opening up, but he wasn't going to waste the opportunity.  
  
"Why not?" Irvine protested, sitting up, hoping fervently that a nagging head   
injury wasn't the cause of Squall's sudden loquaciousness.   
  
"Because . . ." Squall answered slowly. "Because it would be like hoping. It   
would be like wanting something. It would be like wishing that you could   
change the past."  
  
"So?" Irvine asked, exasperated. "What's wrong with that? What's wrong   
with hoping?"  
  
"The past *can't* be changed," Squall said, his voice deadened even beyond   
its usual monotone. "You *can't* always get what you want. And hope always   
dies."  
  
"Not always, Squall," Irvine said, voice a little sad, staring at his friend.  
  
"Yes, it does," Squall said to his gunblade, resuming the rhythm of cleaning.   
"With time, everything dies."  
  
"Fuck, Squall," Irvine breathed, staring at the Commander's lowered head.   
"Don't tell me you always feel this down."  
  
Squall looked up at him, something very like a smile twisting his lips.   
  
"Go to sleep, Irvine," Squall said softly, retreating behind his mask of   
indifference. "I'll take first watch."  
  
The process was almost painful to watch; the smile vanished, the lonely ache   
left the storm blue eyes, the scar smoothed out to a thin red line, and everything   
that made Squall Leonheart so damned interesting vanished into an expression   
like stone.  
  
Irvine grimaced, knowing that the Commander had officially closed the door to   
any further conversation.  
  
"Wake me in two," Irvine reminded him needlessly, squirming a bit to get   
comfortable as he resettled his hat over his eyes: it may be safer and more   
comfortable in the Tent, but Zell had progressed to snoring.  
  
"Whatever," Squall whispered, sheathing his gunblade and turning to face the   
night.  
  
A life without hope, Irvine was forced to ponder. What kind of life could that be?   
How can someone live without regret? Without wanting to change every shitty   
thing that plagued them into the night? Without wanting to just start over, and   
do everything differently, do everything right?  
  
Irvine rolled over onto his side, pulling his coat closed and crossing his arms   
over his chest, shifting his hat restlessly. No way could he sleep now. No hope?   
Then what in Hyne's name was Squall fighting for?  
  
The quiet rasp of whet-stone on steel lulled him into something like sleep; his   
mind drifted an uneasy current of dreams and half-forgotten memories. He   
wasn't like the others. He *remembered*. Not a lot, and not coherently, but he   
*remembered*.  
  
Squall had never been his friend. A hot summer's day, wind blowing in off   
the ocean just cool enough to bite, two little boys, sand-coated, paddling   
dune-trodden through the shallows. A third boy, hair dark, posture closed   
and forbidding, stood solitary, nearer the lighthouse than they were allowed   
to go. He shouted to the blond, hazy in the way of dreamed memories, and   
leaped a wavelet to find--  
  
Squall bisecting an Imp with Lionheart.   
  
Irvine blinked sleep out of his eyes as he rolled to his feet, shotgun up and   
ready before he was; eyesight unsteady in the low, wavering light, he took   
aim and blasted a Bite Bug to hell.   
  
Not that impressive, but he *had* just woken up.  
  
Squall was out in front, as usual, dancing the wounded Imp out of range of   
the Tent, forcing the fight into open field with a flashing web of steel. The Imp   
cast Thundaga and Irvine watched, horrified, as Squall vanished momentarily   
in a billowing ball of energy. Lightning crackled, popped, and Squall ran from   
the center of the spell and attacked; Lionheart raked the ground, sending off   
its own shower of sparks, and cut deep into the Imp's side.   
  
Black blood sprayed, but the creature didn't go down. Irvine took out another   
Bite Bug, wondering when in Hyne's name Imps had gotten so fucking tough   
to kill. Zell stumbled out of the tent, fists idly cocked and eyes bewildered; the   
Imp hit him with Pain, Zell screamed, and Squall--  
  
Squall was suddenly engulfed in a shimmering blue light; it bathed him in an   
ethereal radiance, ruffling his golden-brown hair and refracting the blue of his   
eyes. In that moment, Irvine decided, he was beautiful.  
  
He broke free of the light, running straight up to the Imp, ignoring its defensive   
blows to get closer; blood streaked the both of them, and Squall dropped   
Lionheart to the Centra dust, lunging for the Imp's throat with bared teeth.  
  
Irvine dispatched a last Mesmerize absently, watching Squall's actions with   
a horrified fascination. It wouldn't be so bad, except he could hear Squall   
*chewing* as he ripped through muscle and sinew, and crunched bone, and   
finally came up for air, baring the Imp's heart to the Centra wind.  
  
The Imp was dead.   
  
Most certainly dead.  
  
Squal staggered back into the ring of firelight; the Imp's heart beat idly in his   
hand. Lionheart trailed the dust behind him, as though it was too heavy for him   
to lift.   
  
And yet, when he looked up, his eyes pulsed with life.  
  
"Squall . . .?" Irvine asked, stepping toward him hesitantly.   
  
Squall looked at him, crimson-ringed mouth baring in a red-toothed grin; their   
eyes met, and it was like a spell had fractured.  
  
Squall licked his lips, thoughtfully, looking away first to examine the heart in  
his left fist. His brow creased with something like puzzlement. Lionheart fell  
again to the dust. The heart he lifted to his lips as though to finish his feast.  
  
"Squall!" Irvine yelled, striding forward urgently. This behavior was *not* normal  
for his Commander, not normal at all.  
  
Squall's head came up again, eyes pinning distractingly, like a bird's; Irvine   
paused, and stumbled back a step. Squall grinned again, and tore into the   
cooling heart.  
  
Zell disappeared back into the Tent; Irvine could hear him retching, and wished   
that he had the luxury to do the same. But he watched. He watched the pride of   
Balamb scissor into the dense flesh and bolt down chunks of ruddy meat like a   
wolf, hair flying sticky with blood, face smeared with it, crimson painting his   
hands and leathers, his sword discarded at his feet, a man with no need for tools.  
  
Squall finished the last bite with relish, licking his fingers clean in a neat,   
cat-like way that utterly belied the barbarity with which he'd made the kill.   
He looked up then, pupils so dilated that the iris was a thin rim of silvered-  
blue, and said, "Delicious."  
  
The fight was over. The night was silent again.   
  
"To think that such a noble mind could here be so overthrown," Irvine whispered,   
staring at Squall's blood-spattered form, aghast. "What have you done?"  
  
Squall blinked.   
  
His pupils contracted sharply, like a heart-beat.  
  
"Irvine?"  
  
He blinked again, brows drawing into his usual display of annoyance; his fingers   
worked, and it seemed that the residual feeling of stickiness brought back the   
memory. He blinked again, shuddered, and looked down at his clenching fingers,   
then at his bloodied leathers.  
  
"Irvine, I . . ." Squall looked up, his eyes so lost and helpless that Irvine edged   
forward, letting his shotgun fall to the ground. "What . . ."  
  
"It must have been Eden," Irvine muttered, reasoning it our for himself as Squall   
staggered into a kneeling position. The glove, he remembered, that fucking glove   
and Squall trying to lick it like a cat. "This was our first real fight since the Deep   
Sea Research Facility; of course this wouldn't have come up before now. Eden   
must . . . *need* . . . "  
  
"She's happy," Squall murmured, still staring at his hands. Irvine knelt next to him,   
placing one careful hand on the Commander's shoulder. "She feels . . . happy   
for the first time in my head."  
  
"If *this* is what she needs . . ." Irvine bit his lip. "Are you sure you want to keep   
her?"  
  
"But the power . . ." Squall returned thickly, meeting Irvine's gaze with a mad,   
silvered glitter. "She has so much *power*. I can *feel* her, in my head. She's   
*humming*, Irvine. She wants *more*."  
  
"Not right now, I hope," Irvine joked uncomfortably, refusing to remove his hand   
but with thighs tensed and ready to sprint for the Ragnorak should Squall start   
glowing again.  
  
"No," Squall said, pinning him with an unnerving look of appraisal. "Can't eat   
you. Wouldn't  
work."  
  
"Great," Irvine sighed, clenching his fingers into the steel of Squall's shoulder.   
"It's always good to find out that you care."  
  
"I'm sorry," Squall whispered, shuddering a little as he seemed to come back to   
himself.  
  
Squall's stomach lurched, and he leaned forward in Irvine's arms, trying to retch   
up food that had already been digested, sucked up by an implacable god. He   
was a live thing, jumping in Irvine's grip as he tried desperately to expel the   
monster from his belly; Irvine held onto him, baring his teeth with the effort, able   
only to stroke back the sweat and blood-soaked hair between each dry and   
fruitless heave.  
  
He quieted after a time, lying exhausted in Irvine's arms, clinging to the forearm   
supporting his chest as though it would bring him salvation.   
  
"It's okay," Irvine whispered the meaningless words, hand resting quiescent on   
the younger boy's fragile neck, just at the nape. Squall coughed, sniffled, and   
settled himself into Irvine's arms. He was partly lying on the cowboy's lap, and   
Irvine could feel his legs going numb. He made no move to get up, though. "It's   
okay," he repeated, remembering if nothing else the power of meaningless words.  
  
"I think I need her, Irvine," Squall said, voice hoarse and small as he stared into   
Ragnorak's shadow. "We'll need her power, before the end."  
  
"Maybe," Irvine agreed, head nodding with a sudden small breeze. "Done well   
enough without her," he proposed after a beat of silence, shifting his hand on   
Squall's neck.  
  
"It took everything we had to defeat Ultima Weapon," Squall returned, his voice   
almost dead. "I lost you three . . . four times, I can't remember how many times   
I went down--"  
  
"Seven," Irvine interjected, only to be ignored.  
  
"And still we nearly didn't make it out of there," Squall continued, as though   
Irvine hadn't spoken. "How much more powerful will Ultemacia be, Irvine?   
How much more power will we need?"  
  
"Everything," Irvine said flatly. Squall quivered in his arms, and he soothed the   
younger boy like any skittish mount. "We'll need everything we can get our   
hands on, sure as shooting."  
  
"Will it be worth it, Irvine?"  
  
Irvine paused for a moment, mouth open as he waited for the words to come,   
his heart breaking under the sorrow in Squall's voice.  
  
"It's not a pretty world," Irvine said at last, staring out into a man-made darkness   
that only augmented the night. "And things in it are never easy," now staring at   
the mangled carcass of the Imp. "Everything dies in its time, and returns to Hyne,   
and new life is born. There's a certain beauty in that, Squall," Irvine continued,   
his voice growing more certain and more heartbroken as he spoke. "Everything   
has its time, and place. One day we too will die, when it's our time. Could be   
tomorrow. Could be later tonight. But in its *time*." He paused, sighed.  
  
"And that's what Ultemacia wants to take away. That's what she wants to destroy,   
that beautiful, horrible cycle of death and life." He petted the Commander's hair,   
wanting only to cling to this boy with everything in him. "But life has to go on, and   
everyone has to die."  
  
"Sounds wonderful," Squall said quietly, eyeing Ragnorak's shadow wings.   
"Sounds peaceful."  
  
"In its proper time, Squall," Irvine reminded him, tangling his fingers in bloodied   
russet strands. "Only in its time."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Why, when you've finished," Irvine said, sounding almost amazed at himself.  
  
"But people have died without finishing their life's work," Squall said, his voice   
still a monotone.  
  
"You don't always get to decide what your life's work will be," Irvine returned, a   
faint smile tugging at his lips. "It isn't always *your* story. Sometimes your death   
is the completion of someone else's task, and no more."  
  
"That's very profound," Squall said, his voice unchanged.  
  
Irvine looked down at the tousled head.  
  
"Was that a joke?" he asked doubtfully, glaring at the hair as though for answers.   
The hair shook a 'no'.  
  
"I never thought about it like that," Squall said, plainly considering the subject   
closed. His shoulders hunched in, as though he were cold, though the firelight   
limned his profile in sunset gold.  
  
"Alright, then," Irvine returned, still a bit doubtful as he settled them more   
comfortably in their seat by the fire. Squall's Imp was decaying even as they   
talked, and would soon disintegrate, and scatter on the winds. "You okay to   
sleep?"  
  
"Wake me in two," Squall said indistinctly, his voice muffled in the crook of   
his blood-spattered elbow. Falling asleep bathed in your enemy's gore might   
bother most, but Squall had been doing so for longer than he could remember.  
  
"Yeah," Irvine said gravely, not meaning a word of it. "I'll wake you for next watch."  
  
He soothed Squall's hair into the faint grey of dawn, thoughts quite empty, eyes   
fixed on the far, brightening horizon.  
  
Perhaps Squall had hope, of a sorts, after all.  
  
***  
A/N There was misquoted Hamlet. Find it and get a cookie!  
  
Okay, maybe the Devour bit was rather gruesome, but I just love that  
command to pieces! Seriously, after I acquired it I ran around Devouring  
everything I could find, just for kicks. I especially love that it's censored.   
Heh.  
  
Chapter title taken from a song by Silverchair. Irvine's philosophy was inspired   
by the old FFVII advertisements, you know, the ones that read "If you succeed,   
you save the world. If you fail . . . Well, you can always hit the reset button."   
I loved that ad campaign. :) 


	5. Kindom of Daylight's Dauphin

So, this is part one of the Laguna-Arc, for reasons that will become  
stunningly clear once you start reading. ;) This will run about two   
more parts, and lead into the Rinoa Arc. Everything will be linear  
and move in a straighforward fashion until Rinoa's death, at which  
point the time confusion and flashbacks will begin. :)  
  
  
*****************************************************  
the hollow  
Chapter Five: Kingdom of Daylight's Dauphin  
*****************************************************  
We All Wanna Be Lions  
*****************************************************  
Ballroom   
Balamb Garden, Balamb  
1 ALC  
One and One-quarter Years to the Present   
*****************************************************  
  
Balamb Garden glittered with lights; streamers and chandeliers   
and paper lanterns lit the night in a desperate need to celebrate.   
The sorceress is dead. Long live the SeeD.  
  
Squall stood on what he thought of as *his* balcony, arms crossed   
defensively against the night air. He'd just been released from the   
Infirmary the day before: took one too many blows to the head trying   
to reach his Limit Break more consistently. Apparently the Recover   
command doesn't work very well on concussions.   
  
The dance/celebration/ball raged on inside, music and laughter   
streaming through the open doors in eddying waves; it was just   
like that night, less than a year ago: the SeeD graduation ball.   
He'd stood out here, just like this; maybe leaning on the railing,   
maybe not so ill and emotionally dead.   
  
But essentially everything was the same. Hyne, he was even wearing   
the same uniform; no one bothered to call a tailor for a man still in sick   
bay.  
  
The situation was so familiar he almost expected Quistis to walk   
through the double doors.  
  
She didn't, though. Neither did Rinoa, though she'd been clingy   
enough inside; perhaps one of his friends had pulled her aside   
and convinced her that he needed some alone time. Friends. It   
was odd, being able to use that word with a straight face. But   
saving the world could lead to group bonding, or . . . whatever.  
  
Someone did come outside, though, footsteps loud and yet oddly   
hesitant on the flagstone balcony.  
  
Squall didn't turn from his contemplation of the far distances, but   
cut a glance at the intruder from the corner of his eye. It was the   
president of Esthar, the curiously bumbling fool that had sent them   
after Ultimacia. At least the man appreciated a good contract,   
enough to follow up afterwards, anyway. Squall knew that as   
Commander he should attempt to cultivate the man for future   
business.   
  
Except he was tired. Soul-weary. He'd been to Hell and back, or   
at least to a reasonable facsimile thereof. He hadn't wanted to   
come to the celebration, and he didn't want to talk to anyone,   
especially not a client.  
  
But it was his duty. And duty was almost all that he'd ever known.  
  
"Mister president," Squall began, somewhat at a loss as to where   
to go from there. The other man raised a hand, though, and he   
stopped with a flicker of gratitude.  
  
"Please," the older man said. "Call me Laguna."  
  
"Laguna, then," Squall replied indifferently, not thinking to proffer   
his own name for use. The conversation stalled. Laguna stared   
at Squall for a moment, then turned to look out into the night,   
apparently uncomfortable; he clasped his hands behind his   
back, and began rocking a bit on his heels. He was then   
evidently overcome by a leg cramp, for he suddenly yelped,   
leaned over, and began frantically rubbing at his right calf.  
  
Squall watched this blankly, finally returning his own gaze to the   
far horizon.  
  
Laguna straightened after several long moments of silence, leaning   
on the railing next to the stoic Commander. He cleared his throat.  
  
"Feeling better?" Laguna asked, raising one ebon brow at the   
lengths of gauze decorating Squall's temple. Squall nodded,   
feeling his usual desire to skip any conversational pleasantries.   
Laguna prattled on, oblivious. "Doc Kadowaki, lovely woman,   
told me you had a nasty concussion. I've had concussions before,   
they're really quite unpleasant, did you get too nauseous? I hated   
the nausea worst of all . . ."  
  
"Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Squall asked   
pointedly, cutting the older man off. Laguna frowned.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Squall waited for a bit, expecting a continuation of the monosyllabic   
answer; when none was forthcoming, he raised a questioning   
eyebrow at the other man. Laguna grinned carefully, seeming to   
have stalled.  
  
"Do you . . . Have you . . ." Laguna trailed off, apparently unable to   
continue.  
  
"Yes?" Squall prompted, convinced that the bumbling president   
would never complete the sentence--thereby allowing Squall to   
leave-- without some sort of help. He turned to again face the night.  
  
"Did you ever, umm, think about where your parents might be?"   
Laguna stuttered nervously, cutting sideways glances at Squall's   
profile.  
  
"No," Squall said, not bothering to look at the man. Perhaps anyone   
else would have objected to the question. Squall merely continued   
staring out over the breeding grounds to the plain beyond. The   
ocean was a bare glimmer of light to the south. Laguna coughed.  
  
"I know you were at the orphanage with Edea Kramer . . ." Laguna   
began tentatively, bending down to rub at his calf.  
  
"You spoke with Matron?" Squall asked, his voice suddenly sounding   
very young. His head hurt.  
  
"Yes," Laguna said brightly. "Wonderful woman, very willing to sing   
*your* praises."  
  
" . . ." The moonlight glittered on the distant horizon, and cut gleaming   
swatches on the ragged meadowland.  
  
"She, umm . . . she told me. How she found you," Laguna clarified at   
Squall's continued silence. "And about the ring and pendant you wear."  
  
Squall's hand made an abortive move toward the silver chain around   
his neck, hidden now by the uniform's stiff collar.  
  
"If you spoke to Matron, then you know that I've never remembered   
anything about Griever," Squall said in his usual monotone.  
  
"But you know his name," Laguna protested, almost whining.  
  
Squall turned a full glare on the president.  
  
"It's carved on the back."  
  
"In Galbadian," Laguna countered eagerly. "You remembered the   
language of your childhood!"  
  
"I remember a few things. So?"  
  
"But not your parents?" Laguna asked sadly.  
  
"Whatever," Squall muttered, not allowing himself to wonder at the   
president's motives.  
  
"I'm *sorry*, Squall," Laguna said with something like despair.  
  
"Why?" Squall asked bluntly, turning finally to face the nervous man.   
Laguna wilted visibly.  
  
"Seventeen years ago," he began, staring at his shoes.  
  
Oh Hyne, Squall thought. I hate it when adults drone on and on about   
the past.  
  
"I was living in Winhill, quiet little town, with a woman named Raine."  
  
*Raine*. Squall's hand went to the ring hidden beneath his glove,   
a hard shape beneath the leather.  
  
"She had a daughter," Laguna continued softly, staring out over the   
moor. "A little girl named Ellone." He laughed, a broken sound. "She   
called me 'Uncle Laguna'."  
  
"What happened?" Squall asked, very nearly sounding concerned.  
  
"She was kidnapped." His voice sounded dead. "I went after her,   
followed them to Esthar." He paused, looking down at his hands.   
  
"I found her in a fucking trash bin."  
  
Squall also looked down, feeling an unidentifiable pang at the words.  
  
"I couldn't go back to her mother," Laguna went on after a moment.   
"I couldn't face her after that. So I agreed to lead the rebellion against   
Sorceress Adel. And when I *did* go back, almost four years later,   
they told me that she'd been pregnant, that she died in childbirth.   
That the child died with her."   
  
He turned to face Squall, eyes sparkling with sorrow. "I had no reason   
to stay there. I thought I had no reason to look for my child." He bit his   
lip, hands fisting at his sides as Squall stared at him indifferently. "I   
didn't *know*," he almost wailed, looking lost.  
  
"What do you want from me," Squall asked after several long moments.  
  
The comment floored Laguna for a split second.  
  
"Were you *listening*?!" he demanded. "Your mother was Raine.   
Hyne, you look just like her. That child, *my* child, didn't die during   
birth. They sent *my son* to an orphanage and *lied* to me." He   
stared at Squall searchingly. "*You* are my son. I'm your father."  
  
Squall just stared at him.  
  
"Squall?"  
  
"Commander Leonheart, please," Squall whispered, staring blankly   
at the older man.  
  
"I'm sorry," Laguna said pleadingly.  
  
Squall just continued to stare, feeling something entirely undesirable   
well beneath his breastbone.  
  
"Talk to me," Laguna demanded. "Say *something*!"  
  
"I can't . . ." Squall choked out, one hand going to the pendant over   
his heart. "I can't . . ." His voice died on a whisper.  
  
"Can't what?" Laguna asked intently, stooping a bit to search out   
Squall's eyes.  
  
Squall was looking out to the ocean as though the distant glimmer   
might save him.  
  
"I need to leave," he said faintly, turning to brush past the taller man,   
too swift to catch.   
  
"Wait, please!" Laguna called after him, sounding as lost as Squall   
felt. "I'm sorry," he cried again, making no effort to follow. He looked   
down at his fisted hands, watching a single tear splash on skin   
flushed white with tension.  
***  
  
"You remember that time Seifer put sand down our shorts and   
dragged you into the ocean?" Irvine laughed, nearly spilling his   
punch. The punch had been spiked. He was liking this party more   
and more all the time.  
  
"Yeah," Zell said darkly, taking a sip of his own death-brew; the   
cup was smoking, Irvine noticed with some amusement. "Matron   
grounded him for like a week for that one." He brightened up at   
the mention of Seifer's punishment.  
  
Irvine nodded contentedly. Zell began piling a plate with hot dogs,   
a fatuous expression filling his eyes.  
  
"I sure miss those days," Irvine sighed. He raised the plastic cup   
to his lips, smiling faintly as he drank. The buzz was just beginning   
to get pleasant.  
  
"Miss that?" Zell snorted, incredulous. He was much closer to   
being drunk than Irvine. "Yeah, I miss Seifer like the plague."  
  
"Aw, c'mon," Irvine wheedled. "He wasn't so bad."  
  
"Not so bad?" Zell was slurring now, and gesturing wildly with a   
hotdog. "You didn't have to deal with him here at school. 'Sides,   
he always liked you best."  
  
"Me? Naw. He liked Squall." Irvine denied, eyes focused more   
on the past than on his surroundings.  
  
"Not even!" Zell persisted. "Sure, he pestered Squall, but he   
pestered everybody. But *you*--"  
  
"Shut it!" Irvine said suddenly, feeling the prickle-warning of   
danger as the noise from the crowd changed in tone. He could   
barely hear the shuffling of feet and rise of rumor at the far   
edges of the room, near the balcony, and felt his head come   
up like a wolf scenting prey.   
  
Squall burst into the brightly-lit ballroom like the wrath of Gilgamesh,   
eyes blazing, lips pressed into a thin, suffering line. The celebratory   
throng parted around him as he stalked straight across the dance   
floor, seemingly oblivious to both his surroundings and to the   
mutters that rose up like wildfire in his wake.  
  
Irvine's eyes lit almost immediately on the slim Commander,   
taking in every sign of strain and weakness that would inevitably   
make Squall Leonheart difficult to handle. He shook his head   
ruefully; whoever had pissed the Commander off had sure done   
a beauty of a job. Squall was practically seething. Squall *never*   
seethed.  
  
"Who put a bee in his bonnet?" Irvine muttered idly to Zell; the   
burly martial artist looked up from his plate of hotdogs, murmuring   
a wordless question. Irvine glared at him for a moment, wondering   
how he could be so fixated on food when he was drunk. "Squall,"   
he said sharply, pointing to their Commander with his chin.  
  
Zell finished chewing rapidly, swallowed, and said, "Maybe you   
should go after him."  
  
"Me?" Irvine said, biting his lower lip, still staring after Squall.   
"Sure," he continued, forgetting Zell as he dove abruptly into the   
crowd.  
  
"That was easy," Zell shrugged to himself, going back to his   
beloved hotdogs.  
  
Though easy to spot, Squall threaded through the crowd like   
quicksilver, proving difficult to catch. Irvine dove around Zone's   
extended hand, dodged Watt, nearly fell into Nida, and finally   
broke free into Squall's wake.  
  
"Squall!" he yelled, feeling unaccountably like a real cowboy   
calling challenge. "Wait up!" And trotting after the Commander,   
snatched at his sleeve.  
  
Squall stopped.  
  
The noise of the room seemed suddenly hushed, as Irvine focused   
in on the incredible tension in Squall's shoulders. The shorter boy   
turned to face him, eyes liquid.  
  
"Squall?" Irvine whispered tentatively. Maybe confronting the   
Commander while buzzed hadn't been that great an idea.  
  
"I found my father."  
  
Irvine froze. The alcohol drained away in a sickening rush of dread.   
  
Squall's *voice* . . .  
  
"I wasn't even looking," Squall said in a disconnected, apathy-ridden   
voice that carried in the sudden silence like the ship-wide speakers.   
"But there he is, on the balcony."  
  
"Squall?" Irvine placed a hand on Squall's shoulder, fighting an urge   
to shake coherence from the boy. He'd honestly thought that Squall   
was on the balcony alone, brooding.  
  
"I have to leave," Squall husked, voice thick with unrecognized emotion.   
"I can't be here anymore."  
  
"No, wait," Irvine gasped as Squall slipped past him.  
  
"I have to leave," Squall repeated before disappearing into the   
relivening crowd.  
  
"Shit," Irvine muttered, tearing through the dancers after Squall.  
  
"Hey, Irvine!" Zell slurred, weaving into Irvine's peripheral vision.  
  
"Not now, Zell." Irvine walked past the blonde without really seeing   
him, pushing past celebratory SeeDs. The whispers were rising   
already. Whoever was on that balcony, Irvine did not envy their   
welcome into the anxious crowd.  
  
Of course, once you've saved the world, everyone tends to panic   
when you show signs of strain, Irvine grimaced to himself. Fucking   
sheep.   
  
He swept through an empty hallway to the core of Garden, ignoring   
the fountain in his effort to track down Squall. The Commander would   
go to either his office or his rooms. The only question was to which,   
and Irvine had the sinking feeling that he couldn't afford to waste time   
on a wrong hunch.  
  
***  
  
Laguna looked up from his clenched fists, eyes drawn irresistibly   
to the closed door through which his son had disappeared. He   
sighed. His own son hated him . . .  
  
And why shouldn't he? Laguna had never been there, never   
tried to be there. He hated himself for it; why should he expect   
forgiveness from anyone else? From the one person whose   
forgiveness mattered?  
  
He swallowed a sob. Why bother trying? He always screwed   
everything up.   
  
He let his shoulders slump, a dramatic posture but one that felt   
fitting.  
  
"Giving up?"  
  
"Who's there?!" Laguna's head snapped up at the sound of the   
voice. Shadows moved in the alcove beside the doors.  
  
"Walking out on him again?" The voice came again, female and   
detachedly inquisitive.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
She stepped out into the dim light; the stars gleamed in her   
blonde hair.  
  
"A friend," she said. The light sheened her glasses for a moment,   
opaque and unreadable. Laguna shivered. "Are you going to   
answer my question?"  
  
Laguna leaned down absently to run his hand over his calf.  
  
"I'm not walking out," he protested quietly. "I never *walked out*.   
But he doesn't *want* me."  
  
"Cut the melodrama, President Loire," the blonde snapped,   
crossing her arms over her stomach. "He may not know what   
he wants right now, but Squall needs you. He *needs* you," she   
said raggedly. "You can't just walk away from that."  
  
"I don't know how," Laguna said brokenly, eyes fixed and glazed   
and staring in the general direction of his son as though equipped   
with radar. "I was a terrible father all his life, and I'm supposed to   
be good at it now? I . . ."  
  
"It doesn't take much," she said, walking slowly forward to touch   
his cheek with her outstretched fingers. "You just have to be there.   
The two of you can sort out the rest as you go along."  
  
"It still sounds nearly impossible," Laguna moaned, dropping his   
head into his hands. She laughed brokenly.  
  
"Only if he's mad enough to impale you on Lionheart before you   
two get a chance to bond."  
  
"Great, thanks, now I feel *really* secure."  
  
***  
  
Squall burst into his rooms, flinging an innocent vase across the   
room just to have something to throw. His heart was shuddering   
in his chest. His eyes were actually wet from tears.  
  
He hadn't cried in thirteen years.  
  
The vase hadn't traveled far enough, crashed loudly enough. Of   
course not; he was still in the Dormitory: Single. Fucking Balamb   
housing units. Too small to swing a cat in. Or a Zell.  
  
He laughed at that thought. Couldn't help it. Couldn't help the sob   
that welled up, either, as he collapsed onto the hard, narrow bed.  
  
Doesn't matter. None of it matters, one voice said numbly.  
  
He didn't want you, the other voice agreed.  
  
Sometimes he felt lucky to only have the two voices. It could be   
worse.  
  
He said he didn't know! the first voice protested.  
  
Lies. He knew. He didn't care, the second voice said bitterly.  
  
Doesn't matter, the first voice said, sinking back into apathy.  
  
He could almost feel the walls of ice forming in his heart, sealing   
him off. Freezing him solid.  
  
Doesn't matter, the second voice agreed, more resigned than   
bitter.  
  
Nothing matters. Nothing.  
  
Just the ice.  
***  
  
A/N Let the angst begin! :) Chapter title taken from The Windhover(To  
Christ Our Lord) by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and subtitle taken from  
Round Here by the Counting Crows. 


	6. Fate Has Led You Through It

Okay, fine, so this is part two of the Laguna Arc,   
and the final part! Gomen! So, I also slipped  
some Rinoa-Arc foreshadowing in here, and it's  
not even remotely linear. So pay attention to   
the time and location tags! Very important!  
  
  
  
*************************************************  
the hollow  
Chapter Six: Fate Has Led You Through It  
*************************************************  
*************************************************  
Every Moment Marked  
Present Undetermined  
*************************************************  
  
He leaned into it, back pressed against the wall, feeling   
it flow through him like the first bout of ECT. His bed,   
unmade but unmussed, absorbed most of it; the wall took   
the rest, cool against his flushed cheek.  
  
It doesn't get much worse than this.  
  
Stress, they'll call it later. And yes, his life had gone to hell   
lately. He found his father --or his father found him-- became   
Commander, and . . .  
  
She died.  
  
That last one shouldn't count. He'd never really loved her   
anyway. He'd only thought that it was love. Besides, it was   
his fault that she'd died.  
  
Mostly his fault? Partly? Whatever. Anyway you looked at it   
there was blame to be assigned, and he was more than   
convenient.  
  
So maybe that last one should count most of all, when he's   
tearing through his veins with the fervor of a lemming at a   
sky-diving convention. It definitely matters now, when his   
sweat-soaked skin should be drenched with tears he can't   
cry. When he can't sleep for seeing her. When he can't close   
his eyes or use his voice because any of this might bring it   
back.  
  
When he can't live because she isn't around to make things   
matter.  
  
The first few nights, just after the closed-casket funeral, he   
didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. Stayed curled on their bed   
wondering until dawn if he should follow her.  
  
Wondering *why*, most of all.  
  
  
***********************************************  
Apparitions of Your Soul  
Balamb Dormitory Single #18  
One and one-quarter years to the present  
************************************************  
Irvine found him there, seated on his bed, back against the   
wall, to all appearances perfectly calm. His eyes gave it away.  
  
He was empty.  
  
"Squall?" Irvine approached the bed with a caution that was   
almost startling after his frantic scrabbling at the door. "Come   
on, Squall," Irvine said, crouching near him to stare at one   
uniform-clad knee. "Talk to me. What did he say to you?"  
  
"Nothing," Squall said. His voice was dead, and it shivered   
down Irvine's spine. "Don't worry about it," Squall continued,   
still staring straight through the opposite wall.  
  
"Bullshit," Irvine growled, moving to sit beside the Commander   
on the SeeD issue bed. "He shook you bad, Squally-boy. I've   
never seen you this bad."  
  
"Don't call me that." Still in his careless voice.  
  
"Hyne *damn* it, Squall!" Irvine surged to his feet, pacing angrily   
away before turning to face the unmoved man. "You're *worse*   
than a fucking Ice Prince! Let yourself *feel* something," he said,   
his voice dropping as suddenly from anger to pleading. "You've   
gotta feel, or you're just gonna fly apart."  
  
Squall looked at him. Actually *at* him, and met his violet gaze.   
He nodded.  
  
"Thank you, Irvine," he said quietly, his voice just shy of monotone.   
Then, all in one smooth motion, he lay down on his side and curled   
into a relaxed fetal position, facing the wall.  
  
Irvine stared at his back for a minute, unable to fathom Squall's   
response.  
  
"Squall?" he whispered.  
  
"Not right now, Irvine, okay?" Squall said to the wall, his voice very   
remote and mountain-top cold. "Please, I listened to you. Can you   
just come back later?"  
  
Irvine was silent for a long moment, staring at the uniformed back.  
  
"Yeah," Irvine said slowly, his voice husking with sudden, unshed   
tears.   
  
Whoever had stood on that balcony and ripped Squall's heart to   
confetti had a lot to answer for.   
  
Irvine turned, just as slow, reaching for the door reluctantly.   
  
"You'll be okay?" he asked, feeling silly: now neither was facing   
the other, each talking to the opposite wall.  
  
"Yeah," Squall whispered. There was no sound of movement   
from the bed. Irvine swallowed.   
  
"I'll stick around," Irvine said, clearing his throat with the words.   
"If you need me."  
  
"Whatever," Squall answered, as though more out of habit than   
from any lack of feeling. Irvine had the horrible feeling--his second   
of the day--that Squall was about to break down completely, and   
that he should definitely stay.   
  
He just couldn't think of a way around Squall's own stubbornness.  
  
Unable to think of anything less cliche than 'Feel better', Irvine left   
the room without another word.  
  
The door hissed shut behind him, and he let himself fall against it,   
cursing himself as he thumped into molded plastic.  
  
How the hell did you handle this?  
  
Irvine looked down the empty hall, still leaning against Squall's   
door. Weariness filled his very soul, and he still had a child-  
deserting bastard of a father to find. Damnit to Hyne, why was   
nothing in Squall's life ever *easy*?!  
  
"Irvine?"  
  
He opened his eyes reluctantly.  
  
"Rinoa?" Damnit, the girl was drunk. At least he'd sobered up   
before trying to help. Squall did *not* need this right now.   
  
She swayed a bit on her spike heels.   
  
"What can I do for you, darling?" he drawled, narrowing his eyes in a   
warning glare.   
  
Her lower lip quivered in a way that most men probably found irresistible.   
Irvine would have rolled his eyes if she weren't so oblivious.  
  
"I heard that Squall was upset," she said innocently, clasping her hands   
behind her back.  
  
A lot of men probably found *that* irresistible as well.  
  
"And?" he asked, pointedly not moving from the door.  
  
She frowned. Well, pouted, more like.  
  
"I thought maybe I could talk to him?"  
  
"He really doesn't want to see anyone right now, Rin-honey," he said,   
as gently as he could manage while still seeing Squall's blasted eyes   
in his mind.  
  
She tapped the toe of one death-spiked heel on the tiled floor, and   
looked petulant.  
  
"But he should talk to me," she insisted. "I got him to open up before."  
  
Oh honey, Irvine thought. 'Right place at the right time' ring a bell? He   
woulda opened up for that twit on a balcony a week ago. Hyne, he   
opened up to *me*.  
  
He said nothing, but still didn't move. Her forehead creased, and she   
actually looked sad for a moment.  
  
"Please, Irvy?" she asked, wringing her hands. "I wanna see him."  
  
Oh, leave ringing of your hands, woman, and let me wring your heart.  
  
He said nothing, but nodded; drunk she was, but he could respect   
the honest feelings for Squall that came through the several glasses   
of spiked punch she'd consumed. She just smiled her thanks, that   
sweet, sincere smile that probably launched ships in its free time,   
and sauntered through the open door.  
  
The door hissed shut behind him, and he let himself fall against it,   
cursing himself for a moment, before settling down to business.  
  
If Squall wanted her in there, then certainly no one else was getting   
in. Not on his watch.  
******  
  
  
*********************************  
Drown Your Listening Brain  
Present Undetermined  
*********************************  
  
I want to die.  
  
Is that so surprising? I spent nearly a year of my life engaged in a   
concentrated effort to destroy my life. Of course, that plan backfired.   
Hero of the fucking planet, they tell me.   
  
Great.   
  
With that and some Prozac I might achieve personal happiness.   
  
But then, Balamb Garden's Commander can't be hooked on   
antidepressants, no, that would look bad. The hero of the fucking   
planet shouldn't need certain chemicals suppressed or replaced   
in order to feel normal, no, that would demoralize said fucking   
planet.  
  
I could quit.   
  
Quitting this job is usually accompanied by either death or   
disgrace, but I can be happy with either.  
  
And that's the problem. What I'm happy with has no bearing   
on my life. None whatsoever.  
  
How can that be? How can the hero of the fucking planet not   
be rolling in wealth/fame/women? How can I not be happy?  
  
Simple. None of it means anything.   
  
None of it means shit compared to the fact that my own *father*   
sent me off to save the world without even telling me who he was.   
  
Doesn't compare to waking in a pool of her blood.   
  
Doesn't mean anything next to the shivering whine that Lionheart   
makes when it slides home to the hilt.   
  
None of it compares to the ice-slick feel of Shiva in my head, in   
my enemy's heart.   
  
None of it makes me feel more alive than the quick, hot pain of a   
knife in my own flesh.  
  
It's addictive, death. All of it. Theirs, yours. Mine. Pain, blood, the   
excitement, the letdown, the depression and nightmares that   
follow for months. It feels wonderful. It feels. I feel.   
  
I feel.   
******  
  
  
************************************************  
The Violence of Existing for Only You  
Balamb Domitory Single #18  
One and one-quarter years to the present  
************************************************  
  
She was giggling against the wall, jiggling the bed a bit with each   
gasping breath. He lay still as stone, face dead, heart trying for   
the same. He desperately wanted to be alone.  
  
"Squall," she breathed, stilling at last. "Talk to me. Please?"  
  
If I ignore her, she'll . . . start singing or something, Squall   
acknowledged with something like despair. He *needed* to be   
alone.  
  
"Rin, please," he said, his usual monotone only a bit quieter than   
normal. She frowned, an exaggerated expression of worry.  
  
"Just tell me what's wrong," she said childishly, still somehow   
adorable in her alcoholic haze.  
  
"I . . ." He couldn't say the words. They were too close.  
  
"C'mon," she coaxed in a lightly teasing voice. "You know you   
can tell me anything."  
  
It must be true. Rinoa didn't lie.   
  
And hadn't he told her all about his past? She hadn't run then;   
maybe she wouldn't run now.  
  
"I . . ."  
  
Again the words wouldn't come.  
  
"Did it have to do with the man on the balcony?"  
  
She really was surprisingly perceptive, at times.  
  
Squall nodded, still staring at the wall. She scooted over a bit to   
insinuate herself into his field of vision. He could see a blurred   
bit of her crimson party dress and her cream-smooth thigh.  
  
"Quisty came from that way looking upset, and then a man   
followed after her a bit later. He had pretty hair, and looked   
really sad. Was that him?"  
  
He nodded again, unable to summon enough enthusiasm to   
question Quistis' involvement or deny the word 'pretty'.  
  
"Who was he?"  
  
And that's the question, isn't it, he thought bitterly to himself.  
  
Who's more of an idiot? You, for never looking, or him, for not   
knowing to look?  
  
And where was that ice when you needed it?  
  
"My father," he said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared it irritably.   
  
Rinoa was silent.  
  
"Your . . ." she sputtered finally.  
  
"Wasn't even looking, and there he is," he reiterated, staring   
now at his clenched fist. Any defenses were burning fast now   
as his rage woke and grumbled and roared. Just now, even   
Devour sounded like a valid option.  
  
"Oh, Squall . . ." she began, but he cut her off.  
  
"He had to wait to tell me?" he muttered angrily, almost to   
himself. "He had to wait until *after* the war? He couldn't have   
sent me off to fight or die with a family?"  
  
"Squall--"  
  
"What *is* it about me?" he grated, his short nails cutting crescents   
in his palms. "Was I not good enough before?" Blood began to   
trickle down his wrists. He didn't notice. "He had to wait until I'd   
saved the fucking world?"  
  
"Squall, no!" Rinoa cried, wrapping his stiff shoulders in her arms;   
she was sprawled across his body trying to reach him. He was still.  
  
"Look," she said, sniffling. "He probably saw you, and got suspicious,   
and wanted proof! That *must* be it! He had to wait until you got back,   
and then had tests run while you were in the infirmary!"  
  
He didn't answer her theory. The blood slowed and finally stopped as   
his rage slipped back into the ice and his hands relaxed; he stared for   
a long moment at the drying, crusting crimson, remembering its taste.  
  
"Squall?"  
  
"You forget, I've met the man," Squall said calmly, staring at his   
bloodied wrists. "I don't think he's ever shown discretion in his life.   
I'm not sure he knows how."  
  
"So it wasn't something so noble," Rinoa protested. "Maybe he   
was afraid for himself. Maybe he wanted to be really sure before   
allowing himself to hope."  
  
"For what? For a trained killer? For the fucking Ice Prince of Balamb?"  
  
"For a son," Rinoa said quietly into his shoulder, stroking her fingers   
through his hair. It was surprisingly soothing. He closed his eyes. "For   
a son," she repeated, and he let her. "Can't you understand that, Squall?  
I can," she sighed. "I only ever wanted a family."  
  
"I . . ." he began, feeling something painful well beneath his heart.   
"I never . . . I *couldn't* . . ."  
  
"Shh." She hushed him, and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. The   
braiding must have scratched her pale skin, but she didn't move. She  
wouldn't move.  
  
They stayed there into the next day.  
  
It was the last time he spoke for a week.  
******  
  
  
***********************************  
Four-thirty AM on a Tuesday  
Balamb Dormitory Single #18  
One year to the present  
***********************************  
  
The sound blended with the last milliseconds of his dream, and   
as he smashed into the sheeting, shallow sea, he lunged abruptly   
awake. His back hit the wall with his sudden move, his head   
thumping into plaster; he kicked off the tangled, sweaty sheets,   
almost frantic, gasping with the need to escape.  
  
She wasn't moving.  
  
"Rinoa?" His voice was its usual monotone, but his brows drew   
around his scar in a concerned wrinkle. She should be questioning   
him by now, clinging in her worry. His hand drifted over to her side   
of the bed.  
  
"Rinoa?" His hand drew back, sticky, like microwaved molasses.   
He stared at the darker shadow in the night-black room. The hand   
began a fine tremolo; blood spattered audibly on the soaked cotton   
sheets.  
  
"Somebody . . ." he whispered, staring fixedly at his blood-dipped   
hand. "Someone help!" he yelled then. His voice cracked, and he fell   
silent.  
  
They found him there the next day, when neither of them showed at   
work, at about nine-thirty that morning, curled naked into the wall,   
staring at a hand crusted scarlet.  
******  
  
A/N Titles taken from 'Perfect Blue Buildings' by the Counting Crows,   
a poem by Bernard Boches, and 'Do What You Have to Do' by Sarah  
MacLachlan. References to Hamlet and to Helen of Troy. If you missed   
them, don't worry about it. :) 


	7. Wherein the Pained Blood Falters

***************************************************  
the hollow  
Chapter Seven: Wherein the Pained Blood Falters  
***************************************************  
***************************************************  
Come Undone  
Balamb Dormitory Deluxe #9  
One and one-quarter years to the present  
***************************************************  
  
Her byre was wreathed in daisies.  
  
He staggered the few steps from bed to half-bath, falling to his knees -- two bright points of pain --   
beside white porcelain. His stomach roiled.  
  
She'd always loved flowers. Daisies in particular.  
  
Acid crawled into his throat, clawing into his mouth to pour out strings and spatters. He hung there   
on his arms for a moment, just breathing, mouth gaping open and head down. His hair hung in his   
eyes.  
  
Spring daisies, hard to find this early in the year. Pale blue, with sun-yellow centers.  
  
His stomach roiled, and his back arched with the force of it; he sobbed, panting, as one surge eased   
only to give rise to the next. His skin flushed pale; he rubbed his sweating forehead into the crook   
of his elbow. A tear dripped into the fouled water, and he gagged.  
  
She'd looked asleep. Just asleep. Just . . .  
  
He heaved again, his knees collapsing him like a broken puppet; he ended on one hip, legs sprawled   
inelegantly to the side, barely clinging to the rim with a white-knuckled grip. Nothing came up. A   
thread of black oozed from his parted lips. He bucked, coughed, and spat a crimson gobbet of blood.  
  
His bare skin was clammy against the tile. He shivered, rubbed his cheek against the cool porcelain,   
needing the feel of it on his fevered skin.   
  
She burned on their beach in a pyre.  
  
And he heaved again.  
***  
  
"Hey Selphie," Irvine said quietly, approaching their Commander's door on catfeet, cafeteria tray in   
hand. "How's he doing?"  
  
"Not good," Selphie said from her perch by the door. She stretched soundlessly, without her usual   
mewl of contentment, and levered smoothly to her feet. "He hasn't moved, it doesn't sound like.   
He certainly didn't ask for anything."  
  
"Of course not," Irvine said bitterly, staring at the door as though he should be able to see through   
it. "Want to wager on him eating this soup?"  
  
"What kind?" Selphie asked, some of the humor creeping back into her voice.  
  
"Tomato basil," Irvine replied, twinkling one eye at her.   
  
Her face fell. "Not a chance," she said sadly. "He probably wouldn't eat anything red right now."  
  
Irvine didn't answer for a few minutes, still staring at the door. "He might," he replied after a time.   
"He just might."  
  
"Irvine?" Selphie asked, looking adorably confused. "Do you know something, sugar?"  
  
"Maybe," Irvine said cryptically, before keying the door. It shushed open flawlessly. At least   
something was working right.  
  
"If you're not out in four days, I'll send in the search party," Selphie whispered loudly.  
  
"Gee, thanks," he returned; then he let the mirth drain away, and stepped inside the Commander's   
Deluxe Dormitory Single.   
  
It was spotless.  
  
Irvine, who'd expected mass property destruction, or at least a bachelor's dust, glared at the   
offending couch -- slipcovered -- and tiles -- sparkling. It looked as though . . . as though   
no one lived here.  
  
"Squall?" he asked, stepping forward so that the door shushed shut behind him. It was a tiny   
apartment, where could the other man possibly be?  
  
He wasn't in the kitchenette, though the refrigerator was open and milk had puddled on the   
floor, pooled around a crumpled plastic container. Irvine grimaced, set the lidded soup on the   
dust-free counter, and stepped gingerly around the mess to thoroughly check the tiny alcove   
for body parts. The search was only half in jest.  
  
"Squall?" he called again, crossing the living room in quick strides now that he knew where   
the other man must be. There was only one room left unchecked. Squall *had* to be . . .   
  
He wasn't in the bedroom.  
  
"Hyne damn it, Squall, where are you?" Irvine whispered, staring at the unmade bed with some   
dismay. Perhaps they'd moved his room too quickly after she'd . . . Perhaps he'd needed to let   
go on his own terms.   
  
Perhaps he was being a complete fucking idiot.  
  
"Squall?!" Irvine yelled, his Galbadian drawl emerging as he became frustrated. He would be   
mocked for this later on, he knew, but damn the man! Where *was* he?!  
  
Only later would he wonder why the sound of running water had gone unnoticed for so long.  
  
He was staring at the bed, a lost man, searching the folds and crumpled sheets for the   
meaning of his Commander's life. A useless exercise. When water pinged in nearly new,   
aging pipes. Distinctive sound, one not easily forgotten.   
  
His head came up, cocked so that the brim of his hat funneled the sound, amplified it, and led   
him quickly toward the tiny in-suite bathroom. He tried the door, locked. The quick entry of   
Squall's passcode, and he stepped through into--  
  
Squall was sprawled across the tiles. For an instant his pale, naked body looked dead, and   
Irvine staggered, hand going to his throat as he saw Squall breathe, just the tiny lifting of his   
too-visible ribs, but he was alive, and he was on the floor and naked and had he been   
throwing up?  
  
"Squall?" Irvine asked, stepping through the doorframe so that the door hissed shut. The   
toilet stopped running: it had been flushed recently, then. Squall didn't respond to his name;   
he gleamed with fever-sweat, and his skin was streaked with his own blood and inevitable   
spatters of bile. "Squall . . ." Irvine sighed, kneeling next to his friend, placing a single sun-  
browned hand on the pale stretch of back.   
  
Squall stirred, coughed into the crook of his elbow. He groaned weakly, head coming up   
as he began a weak scrabble for the toilet. Irvine caught him, hoisted him up so that he   
could heave into the bowl, rather than around it. The fragile ribs shuddered beneath his   
hands, brown fingers spread broad across skin gleaming with sickness and grief. Irvine   
closed his eyes to the sight, wishing he didn't have to listen to Squall's dry, desperate   
heaves.  
  
"Squall . . ." he murmured, blinking violet eyes at the sweat-soaked hair, the shivering flesh   
racked with cold. Squall could be going into shock. He could slip into hypothermia, lying on   
the cold tiles. He could . . . Irvine shut his eyes determinedly, thrusting his knee under   
Squall's shuddering belly to help support the weight. Squall gagged a final time, and was   
still.   
  
Irvine's brow wrinkled. "Squall?" The other boy didn't stir. His head lolled to the side,   
revealing an oblique profile of cheekbone and closed eyelid. Irvine smoothed back the   
tangled chestnut hair, running his thumb along the plane of the vulnerable left temple.   
"Squall, what are you doing to yourself," he whispered, not expecting an answer and   
therefore not surprised when he received none.  
  
Squall moaned, eyelid fluttering aimlessly as something of consciousness returned. Irvine   
pulled the weakly struggling body in tighter to his chest, securing Squall when he would   
have slipped back to the cold tiles.  
  
"Hyne," Irvine growled, settling his arm around the curve of bared ribs, feeling corded   
muscle flex beneath his hands, warm skin, too warm for having laid on that damn tile,   
so thin the bones seemed almost to push at the pale skin, and over all the sour smell of   
bile and the copper hint of fresh blood. "Hyne damn it, c'mon!" he continued, one arm   
slipping a little in drying sweat as he struggled to stand.   
  
Squall coughed, head hanging. Irvine grimaced with effort as he pulled Squall mostly to his   
feet, like arranging a puppet, dead weight and no inclination to help. He was sagging in   
Irvine's grip, fever riding high in the pale flush to his thin face.  
  
Irvine stopped trying then; his violet eyes hardened to chips of mica, blankly reflective of   
nothing as he wrestled his weakened friend into the narrow shower stall, barely large   
enough for both of them. Squall mumbled something unintelligible, eyes flashing silver   
as Irvine, face blank of feeling, settled him against the cold acoustic tiles. A shiver took   
him, slumped there, and Irvine stepped back, smiled grimly, and flipped on the water with   
one long arm.  
  
It came out ice cold, as always, and Irvine hastily wrenched aside the showerhead as   
Squall thrashed himself upright, eyes wide and staring, blind with the fever. He made   
a sound like keening, and his head hit the tiles. "Shit," Irvine muttered, stooping into   
a crouch and pulling Squall back into his arms. Trembling now, Squall burrowed into   
the warmth; the shower rattled ineffectually against the far corner, spattering them   
with a lukewarm spray. The water beaded quickly on Squall's naked skin, dampening   
his hair and darkening the occasional streak of blood to crimson.   
  
Irvine grimaced. Water began to soak through the front of his vest, the heavy silk sodden   
against his breast, rapidly leaching any warmth he'd carried with him. Squall rolled his   
head restlessly against Irvine, scrubbing his tangled hair across the purple silk as he   
tried to hide in Irvine's arms.  
  
Irvine sighed, glaring down at the back of Squall's head, the tangled hair, pure hatred   
beginning to bubble beneath his breast. Water from the showerhead pattered at his   
hat brim. His eyes were cold, and filled with unshed tears.  
  
"Stop this," he said, voice low. Squall didn't seem to hear him, and he shook the other   
boy. "Stop this! Stop it, just stop trying to die, you fucking idiot!"   
  
Squall's eyes rolled silver.   
  
The shower rattled against the tiles.  
  
Irvine froze, fingers buried in the cords of Squall's shoulders, exposed musculature like   
bird's wings.   
  
"Oh Hyne . . . " Irvine whispered, staring down at his friend, fully realizing only then   
exactly how ill Squall had become. Fever raised the only color in his thin face. Irvine   
blinked away sudden wetness, watching the deeply-shadowed eyes. "Oh Hyne, Squall,   
what have we done to you?"  
  
He pried his fingers loose gently, settling the lolling head back against his chest as he   
squirmed into the shower behind Squall, pulling the Commander into his lap and   
yanking the showerhead out of its bracket to sheet away the vomit and the blood and   
the cold echo of his words.   
  
He hadn't meant it. Really. He squeezed his eyes shut, lathing warmth over Squall's   
chilled skin. It went on like singing. Squall's head rolled against his shoulder, and the   
water shushed quietly over their bared flesh and his soaked jeans. Like singing.   
  
Tears ran unnoticed down his cheeks, and his head tilted instinctively to hide his eyes   
behind his hat brim.  
  
"Ir . . ." Squall moaned, hand clenching weakly at Irvine's arm. Irvine caught Squall's   
wrist with his free hand, holding him still as he ran the spray down one splayed-out   
leg, then the other. "Irvine . . ." Squall whispered, voice raw and broken.  
  
"Shh . . ." Irvine hushed him, pressed a kiss to dripping hair, settled him more firmly   
into the curve of his arms. Squall flailed one arm, turned his head and bared the long   
line of his throat, and was still.   
"Shh . . ."  
  
Water pattered down on them, rattled on the tile. The fluorescents flickered and buzzed   
in the wavering cloud of steam. The water slowly ran lukewarm, then cold. Squall   
shivered.  
  
Irvine started. Squall slid down his chest as Irvine sat up, and he caught the shuddering   
Commander with one strong arm as he reached for the faucet, turning off the shower   
with a knocking creak of the pipes. Irvine hefted the sagging body up, held lean and   
shivering against his side, and caught a corner of the towel draped over the hangbar   
by the sink. It was a handtowel. He 'grr'ed, ran it down Squall's breastbone to no effect,   
and stepped determinedly out of the shower, dragging the Commander with him.   
  
Squall didn't protest as he was toweled dry. Irvine propped him on the closed lid of the   
toilet seat, dried himself perfunctorily, and then ran the warm, damp cotton down   
Squall's legs and arms, scrubbed at his hair, then enveloped his torso with the terrycloth.   
He turned the motion into a hug, pulling Squall again to his feet and half-dragging him   
into the tiny bedroom.  
  
"I can't do this anymore," he sighed, half to himself, as he lowered Squall's slack-limbed   
body to the bed, sprawled careless like a dead thing on top of the tangled sheets. The   
towel was thrown to the floor as useless, and he hauled Squall fully onto the narrow   
mattress and wrestled the sheets over his damp, naked skin. "I can't . . ." he whispered,   
staring blankly at Squall's restlessly tossing head, slumping as he spoke to sit beside   
his friend on the mattress, narrow and hard and thin. His hand flung out to catch his   
weight, landing on Squall's hip, thin and hot even through the sheet, even though   
Squall was shivering.   
  
"Hyne damn it," Irvine sobbed, feeling the bones of his oldest friend, and the fever-heat   
and the scent of his grief still heavy in the air, pain blooming in his chest and he just   
crumpled forward, despair tearing out of him with a low sob. "Don't, don't, please," he   
managed, nearly incoherent, face pressed to Squall's belly, soft and flat and shivering   
slightly with the fever. Another sob wracked Irvine, and he stopped even trying to speak,   
concentrating instead on pushing it down, shoving it down, making sure there was   
nothing . . . just nothing at all.  
  
Eventually nothing. And worn out with trying, he slept.  
***  
  
Of course Selphie made good on her threat.  
  
The sun had caught him full in the face when she entered the front room. At some point   
during his sleep he'd slid down to the floor, and she found him stretched out there   
beside Squall's bed, stretching carefully with one hand attending to his water-damaged,   
slightly crumpled hat. His face was tear-stained and weary, and his clothes had obviously   
gotten very wet and dried on him. His silk vest had leaked violet on the floor tiles. He   
grinned up at her sheepishly.  
  
"Irvy, what-" she began, but he shushed her rapidly.  
  
"Shh, not now, kitten," he whispered. "Squall's asleep." And he pointed to the front room,   
only climbing to his feet when she'd wrinkled her nose at him, shrugged, and marched   
about-face into the main room. Irvine creaked as he moved. And growled, to hear   
evidence of his own aging joints. He really did feel horrible, and needed to take a piss,   
but Selphie was waiting to hear why he'd fallen asleep on Squall's floor. He looked   
down at Squall, who hadn't moved since his last memory; the Commander was a   
huddled curve beneath the sheets, pale and thin and undeniably tragic. His shivers   
had stopped, at least.  
  
Irvine smirked at his own neverending concern, feeling some odd, black self-loathing   
well in his heart as tears rose behind his eyes. He forced them down, and turned   
resolutely from the bed and its sleeping master. This shouldn't matter to him. Squall   
needed to grieve, what cared he if that grief proved destructive and potentially deadly and--  
  
His heart stuttered at the thought. He had to fling out a hand to grip the doorframe as   
he passed, a slight stagger but nothing that slowed him down. He would get through   
this, and so would Squall, and there was nothing of Rinoa's suicidal idiocy in any of   
the Orphanage gang . . .   
  
"Irvine?" Selphie's voice stopped his thoughts, brought him out of that well. He blinked   
at her, head coming up quickly into the brighter light of the front room's single picture   
window. "Irvine, what happened in here? What's wrong with Squall?"  
  
Irvine bit his lip, and shuffled reluctantly to the couch, pulling her down to sit with him.   
His vest had wrinkled as it dried, and chafed beneath his damp jean jacket, and his   
jeans rubbed wet on his bare flesh. Selphie's eyes were uncommonly serious, and he   
began, "Squall's in a real bad way, sugar, and--"  
  
"I know that," she interrupted, bouncing a little in her seat. "I meant what happened   
with *you*?! You were just going to drop off the soup, and you never came out, so   
something must have happened with Squall, right?"  
  
"Right," he confirmed, feeling dazed. He'd forgotten the damn soup, just like he'd   
forgotten Selphie's presence as watchdog just beyond the outer door. "I found him just   
about passed out on the bathroom floor, sick as all hell." He settled back against the   
cushions, feeling the ache of sleeping on tile in his bones. He sighed. "I don't know   
what to do for him anymore, 'Elph. I don't even know how to try."  
  
"Squall . . ." she said faintly, staring at the closed door of his bedroom like the man   
might die at any time. "Irvy, what *have* we been doing?" she asked, turning her intent   
gaze to Irvine's downturned profile. "You give him soup, and we watch him, but what   
have we really been doing?   
I think he *needs* . . ."  
  
"What?" Irvine asked when she trailed off, his spine straightening unconsciously.  
  
"We need to think about why he was with *her* in the first place." His Selphie was not   
the forgiving sort, that was Hyne's own truth.  
  
"He was hurting over finding out about Laguna," Irvine said slowly, remembering that   
'hurting' was an understatement, remembering the naked pain and confusion in Squall's   
storming eyes. "She talked to him." His head fell into his hands. "I couldn't get him to   
talk to me, so he talked to her instead. He talked to her . . ."  
  
"And they were inseparable after that," Selphie said, bitterness overriding her usual   
perky tones.  
  
"Damn it," Irvine muttered, remembering a decision made how many months ago, a   
decision made half-drunk in a Dormitory Single after Squall's unforgettable explosion   
during the Celebration. Unforgettable because who forgot a single instant of Squall's   
life? Explosion because this was Squall, after all. Celebration, capital 'c', because   
they'd saved the world, and what other celebration could have the same meaning,   
after that? It was just the Celebration, just as it was Squall's explosion, a tantrum to   
rival any of Rinoa's to hear the younger cadets speak of it. Even to Irvine, and he'd   
watched Squall stalk grim-silent through the laughing crowds; not an explosion,   
but in terms of Squall Leonhart . . . for whom everything was legend.   
  
"Irvine?" Selphie's voice surprised him, drug him from the depths of bitter speculation;   
his head came up suddenly with her voice, and he felt another tinge of deja vu for the   
Celebration, a twinge of muscle memory as he focused in on her wide green eyes.   
"Irvine, what's wrong?" she asked. "What's really wrong?"  
  
"It's my fault," he whispered, staring at her with the truth naked in his eyes. "I should   
have been able to help him. I tried, I almost got him to talk to me, but I couldn't. I   
couldn't, and on top of that I let *her* just waltz into his room like it was her own,   
and now he's in there killing himself for missing her and--"  
  
"Irvine, no," Selphie said quickly, catching him as he would have jumped up -- to pace   
or flee neither could have said. He stared at her hand, white against his tanned skin,   
but a healthy, glowing, gold-kissed white, and Hyne even that caused a flash of Squall's   
pale flesh. "It's not your fault," she continued earnestly, tugging him back into place   
with largely unsubtle movements. "You couldn't have known, we still don't even know   
why, it's not . . . oh, Irvy," she said, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, you're not, I'm sorry."  
  
"What for?" he whispered, voice caught in regret. She was crying.  
  
"It's been all about her, and him, and never your pain, and I know you're hurting, Irvy,   
I'm sorry we never seem to care, but Squall's just so fucking lost and you seemed   
okay most of the time, and you were good for him, and--"  
  
"Okay," he said, cutting her off with a near-laugh. She sniffed, and he sighed. "I'm not   
hurting, not like Squall. And I don't feel neglected, sugar." He managed a real grin for   
her as the tears eased. "I feel downright loved most of the time. I just get frustrated   
over moody in there . . ." His brows lowered. "I know he's hurtin, sugar, and I feel   
sorry for him, I do," he mused absently, drawl deepening as he thought out loud and   
her eyes regained something of their usual spark and his hat gave up the ghost. He   
dropped the crumpled thing at his feet. "But I don't understand him, 'Elph, I don't get   
why he hurts this bad over what's happened."  
  
"It was a lot for anyone, Irvine," Selphie said gently, following his eyes to the door. The   
fact that it was closed seemed suddenly symbolic, and she shivered lightly. "He just   
feels things harder than most people."  
  
"Yeah," Irvine said slowly. "I guess that was part of how he defeated Ultemecia."  
  
"We helped," Selphie said quietly. "He's always been moody," she continued, her voice   
louder and closer to happy than Irvine felt comfortable with. "You just have to give   
him time, is all."  
  
"He's killing himself," Irvine said, staring at that damn door. "We talk like it's a passing   
thing but he could die of it . . ."  
  
"Then shouldn't we do something?" Selphie prompted.  
  
"I try," Irvine snapped. "I try, and I do what you're supposed to do, and I offer sympathy   
and I don't push him and I bring him fucking *soup* like that'll cure the ills of the world   
and none of it *works*. It's supposed to . . . None of it . . ." His anger died in the   
returning surge of fear and Selphie grabbed his hand in both of hers.  
  
"Push him!" she yelled, grabbing his jaw and pulling him forcefully back to her. "You've   
been coddling this, this . . . *fuck*, we all have, and he's in there not moving because   
of it! *Push* him, Irvine! You did it all through the War, you made sure he got through   
and you pushed him to do it! You can't . . . We've been helping him kill himself, Irvine,"   
she said, sounding so sure of it that Irvine felt the pain prick somewhere in his lungs,   
stealing his breath. She wasn't crying now, or uncertain, or the least bit cheerful. His   
eyes were wide, his soul striped and spotted but bare; all the masks had fallen away.   
"Push him," she finished, softly, her voice never more final, never more sure.   
  
"I . . ." he began. The sun was bright, though it felt late, his soul tired. The door to   
Squall's bedroom hissed open,. Squall glowered at them, holding himself upright with   
one hand, leather jeans loose about his narrow hips, looking too thin and sweated-out   
and angry. "Squall?" Irvine said, like a man coming out of a dream.   
  
"Irvine," Squall rasped, low and broken and monotone. His eyes glittered, but it could   
have been fever.   
  
Something within Irvine snapped.  
*** 


	8. Part of a Human Garden

**********************************************  
the hollow  
Chapter Eight: Part of a Human Garden  
**********************************************  
The Tombs of Angels  
Balamb Dormitory Deluxe #37  
One and one-quarter years to the present  
**********************************************  
  
The sun slanted across Squall's bare chest, his face set into its mask like slowed   
time, his eyes glittering in the late light. The world seemed almost to slow with him.   
Irvine swallowed, and felt his lips grow dry and papery in the tension of their locked   
stare.   
  
"Squall," Selphie whispered, the words dying in her throat. Squall didn't look at her,   
didn't take his eyes from Irvine's for an instant.  
  
"Get out," he said, almost brimming with betrayal. Selphie rose slowly, her usually   
smiling face crumpling into a mask of hurt and starting tears, but she left, moving   
slowly in a sundress that seemed faded beneath the warm light. Irvine noted her   
flight in the corner of his peripheral vision, but kept his focus on Squall.  
  
Squall looked . . . pissed. Angrier than he'd been since the last battle, eyes almost   
silver, skin shivering faintly with repressed rage. Homicidal. And so fucking beautiful   
that it hurt to look at him. And so thin that Irvine's mind flashed to the soup he'd left   
on the counter, helplessly, feeling that need to protect this man well up in him even   
above the anger.  
  
"Squall, I . . ." he whispered, tongue flickering out to wet his lips.  
  
Squall shook his head, even his scowl smoothed into the impassive scar; his hand   
was trembling with the strain of holding himself up. Irvine's hat dripped from the   
crinkling band, loud in the sudden stillness, and Irvine scowled.   
  
"Squall, damn it, go sit down before you fall down," Irvine snapped, rising to his  
feet on a sudden rush of pure worry. Squall's eyes flared, and he stepped forward.  
  
"Don't," he said thickly, hand coming up to ward off Irvine's approach when the   
cowboy would have steadied him. He brushed past Irvine's outstretched arm,   
eyes focused on the tiled floor.  
  
"Squall?" Irvine said, confusion darkening his violet eyes.   
  
"Just don't," Squall said, brushing past Irvine to pad toward the kitchenette. The   
light gleamed on his broad shoulders, the fine-grained skin of his back, like silk   
or water beneath the slanted sun. Irvine watched him go, waiting for the feeling   
in his stomach to solidify into something real. It never felt real.  
  
"Don't what?" Irvine asked, stepping into Squall's wake, their shoulders almost   
brushing as they stepped into the ill-lit kitchenette.   
  
"Don't speak to me," Squall said, his voice not changing, his back stiff.   
  
"What?" It felt like rejection. That was the feeling. Rejection.  
  
"How can you?" A flat monotone; Irvine felt fear shiver down his throat. "How can   
you stand there and act like things are normal?" Finally Squall turned to face him,   
eyes cloudy, skin almost translucent and damp with fever-sweat. "She is gone,   
Irvine," and if only his voice would break Irvine knew this growing fear would   
dissipate. "We turned her into dust, she is ashes, she is gone." Implacable, like   
the tide, like the flat, muddied eyes. All his silver had fled. Irvine swallowed.  
  
"Squall, what are you talking about?" he whispered. Squall turned again, half in   
profile, staring at the countertop.   
  
"We burned her on her beach." He smiled faintly, and Irvine felt another shiver curl his   
heart. "She is ashes, we burned her to ashes in her blue dress and daisies."  
  
"She did love daisies," Irvine said, his voice faint, distant beneath his shock.   
"Squall," he said carefully. "That didn't happen."  
  
Squall didn't answer, and Irvine stepped forward, feeling the movement as from a   
great height, the edge of a fucking cliff.  
  
"It's only been three days, Squall. She's still in the Infirmary. We haven't even--"  
  
"No," Squall said, his usual monotone enough to interrupt Irvine's uncertain speech.   
"She is gone." And he stepped further into the kitchenette, vanishing into the   
shadows of the dark little room.  
  
He'd never been shot before. A funny thing to realize, a sharpshooter who'd never   
felt the consequences of his own skill; Squall had his scars to remind him, and   
Seifer must have that same knowledge. Irvine had never felt the same, never been   
punctured, blasted apart, thrown into the afterlife on a hammer of steel but this---   
This *must* be the feeling, he realized, standing there and watching Squall   
disappear into a dark that was more metaphor than physical. This was pain, this   
was death, this was loss. Squall was there in body, but in soul . . . he was far gone.  
  
Irvine's head lowered, the brim of his hat covering his eyes as he felt despair well   
within his heart. It had been an off and on affair, his hope, but it had fled as surely   
as Rinoa had fled. Didn't take much. Just a few words. And give up.  
  
He felt a smile form on his lips, crooking them slightly. He shook his head, chuckling   
a little as he turned brightened eyes on Squall's still figure; their Commander was   
simply standing in the center of his kitchenette as though he'd run out of gasoline,   
staring blankly at nothing, and Irvine let his smile widen and grow and form fully.   
He was not giving up. Not on this man. Give up? After everything they'd been   
through, after everything Squall dragged them through and dragged from them,   
the skill and the courage and the heart and fuck it all, he wasn't giving any of that   
up! Not in this lifetime.   
  
There was no speaking as he stepped into the shadows to stand beside Squall, no   
sound as he gathered the static form in his arms and carried him from the darkened   
room. They'd gone beyond the need for speech, at least for now, striding through   
shafted light, Squall too thin in Irvine's strong arms, his head nestled trustingly on   
Irvine's shoulder, against the crinkled silk vest.   
  
"I'll take care of you," Irvine whispered, breaking the stillness as he lowered Squall   
carefully to the rumpled bed. He straightened out the slack limbs with care, ignoring   
the staring sea-blue eyes until he'd finished. He smiled at his friend, and nodded   
once, firmly. "I'm going to take care of you." And end scene.  
  
"No."  
  
Irvine blinked. He'd thought Squall too weak to even understand what was happening,   
but the Commander had raised himself onto his elbows and was glaring up at Irvine   
through his ragged fringe.   
  
"No, what?" Irvine asked, sitting on the edge of the bed so that Squall wouldn't have   
to strain his neck.  
  
"I don't need you to take care of me," Squall said, snarling the words as though he'd   
been insulted. "I can take care of myself."  
  
"Like you have been so far?" Irvine asked incredulously. "Look at yourself! When's   
the last time you ate?!"  
  
"I . . ." Squall began, pausing as if for thought. His brows crinkled adorably, but Irvine   
felt rage rise in place of his usual amusement at the sight.  
  
"Can't you remember? Hyne, Squall, don't you even see what you're doing to yourself?"  
  
"What, Irvine?" Squall snapped, his eyes beginning to silver over again and Irvine   
could only wonder how long he'd be able to sustain the anger this time. "What am   
I 'doing' to myself?"  
  
"I found you on the floor of the fucking bathroom," Irvine shouted in return, standing   
abruptly and stalking over near the window. "I thought you'd . . . Hyne, damn it," he   
continued, turning back to face Squall with real rage bubbling in his breast. "Why   
don't you see what this is? Why can't you get the fuck over it?!"  
  
"Get over it?" Squall repeated slowly, staring up at him with narrowed eyes. "Just like   
that? Is that how you live your life? Remind me, Kinneas, is it death's okay after we   
feel we're done or is it die and then feel complete? Which was it for Rinoa?" he   
continued, voice steel-tense and breaking under the strain. "Which should it me for me,   
Kinneas? Which should it fucking be?"  
  
"You . . ." Irvine stopped, seeing Squall as if for the first time, a weakened Lion, still   
deadly, curled in his lair. He grinned crookedly, his usual mask. "I don't know,   
Leonhart, can you follow either order? *Do* you feel?"  
  
"I feel . . ." Squall began hotly; he stopped himself quickly, looking down just as a newer   
emotion began to blaze through his eyes.  
  
"*Do* you feel, Squall?" Irvine repeated, his voice sniper-cool but growing angrier with   
every word. "Answer me that, Commander. Do you feel?"  
  
Squall stared up at him, eyes gone vague and storm-muddled. Irvine almost wished for   
a stopwatch to time Squall's stamina. The silver had fled  
  
"Well?" Irvine demanded, climbing onto the bed to confront Squall. "How do you feel,   
Squall? How do you fucking feel?"  
  
"Irvine," Squall said, a soft monotone. "Don't."  
  
"Don't *what*? Ask you to be human?"  
  
"Just . . ." Squall looked away, a slow turn toward the windows, where the sinking sun   
barred the room in dusty amber. "Not right now."  
  
"Squall . . ." Irvine sighed, leaning back a little and finally arranging himself in a cross-  
legged slouch. "We're worried, okay? This isn't *healthy*, it's not . . . *fuck*!"   
  
"I don't know . . ." Squall's brows came together thoughtfully, his scar wrinkling. "I'm   
fine . . ."  
  
"Was that a question?"  
  
"I don't . . . Irvine, just . . ."  
  
"I know you're hurting inside," Irvine said desperately, grabbing Squall's shoulder,   
causing the older SeeD to stiffen abruptly. "I don't want you to end up like--"  
  
Irvine stopped himself.  
  
Squall glared up at him from beneath jagged bangs, eyes flat, body tensed in   
awareness of the hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Leave it be, Irvine." His voice was cold, his eyes colder.  
  
Irvine's hand spasmed on his shoulder. The cowboy's head fell forward, and suddenly   
he ripped the hat from his head and threw it into the far wall.  
  
"Right," he ground out. "Of course you're fine. Nothing touches Leonheartless, right?"   
He pinned Squall with angry eyes. "You pulled this routine last time, I'm not letting you   
do this to us again!"  
  
"You aren't *letting* me do anything," Squall said, his manner suddenly dangerous.  
  
"Fine!" Irvine spun to face the wall, throwing his arms out in a parody of frustration.   
"You want to fight me on this?" He was suddenly facing Squall again, his anger   
blazing. "C'mon, Leonhart. Fight me."  
  
Squall met his gaze flatly for a long few moments, then looked away.  
  
"Whatever," he said softly. Irvine snorted.  
  
"That's what I thought," Irvine nodded to himself. "You start letting yourself feel anything,   
you come let me know."  
  
And the cowboy spun to the far wall, collected his hat, clapped it to his damp-darkened   
auburn hair, and sauntered angrily to the door. His hand hit the OPEN panel, and the   
door *shush*ed open, and--  
  
"Damnit, Squall," Irvine said helplessly, letting the door slide shut again.  
  
Squall had apparently decided to ignore him; at least he was speaking, Irvine thought   
philosophically. He shuffled back to the bed, folded himself slowly back into his slouch,   
and propped his chin on his fist to stare into Squall's eyes.  
  
Said eyes narrowed.  
  
"Get out," Squall growled, apparently no longer in the mood for heart-to-hearts.  
  
"No," Irvine said, feeling a sudden surge of depression. What the fuck was he   
supposed to do in this kind of situation? "That isn't going to work this time. I'm not   
leaving you. Not this time."  
  
Squall glared at him for a moment.  
  
"You think that's why?" he asked after a while. His tone of voice was no clue, but Irvine   
was getting tired of testing the waters anyway.  
  
"Yeah," he said belligerently. "I do. I think you been left once to often. Your father left you,   
Rinoa left you, we all left you . . ." Irvine trailed off sadly. "I'm sorry about that, Squall.   
Not leaving you again."  
  
Squall blinked at the mention of Rinoa's name.  
  
His eyes squeezed shut.  
  
When they opened, the ice was back.  
  
"I wouldn't know," Squall said tonelessly. "I don't remember."  
  
"Oh, Hyne, don't give me that shit!" Irvine snarled. "I told you, all of you! Everyone else   
remembers!"  
  
"Not me," Squall denied implacably. His eyes were shuttered, hidden to the very depths.  
  
///  
Why do they all leave?   
///  
  
"No," Irvine growled, leaning in to grip Squall's shoulders, peering desperately into his   
opaque eyes. "You can't live like this anymore, you- You have to . . . Squall, would you   
just fucking let me help you?!"  
  
"Why?" Squall whispered after a moment, letting his head tilt to the side, breaking their   
gaze. Irvine made a small, helpless noise deep in his throat, staring at Squall with a   
puzzled, lost expression.  
  
"Why what?" he asked.  
  
"Why does everyone leave?" he asked, voice so quiet that Irvine had to strain to hear.   
"What did I do?"  
  
"Oh Hyne," Irvine muttered, fingers releasing their grip involuntarily. "I'm sorry, Squall," he   
continued, voice cracking. "I am so fucking sorry, I--"  
  
"It's okay," Squall said, his voice very young. "I'm almost used to it."  
  
"No, it's not okay," Irvine said fiercely. "It will *never* be okay. I swear, on anything, on   
all that is holy, I swear I won't leave you again, Squall Leonhart. I swear." Tears ran   
unchecked down his lean cheeks, unnoticed in his fervor.  
  
Squall met his passion with dead eyes.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
But there was something there, buried so deep it had been assumed dead since around   
early adolescence, but it was there, breathing its first choked breaths and blinking up at   
the much-changed world. It was there, and Irvine could see it, even beneath the death.  
  
"I'm *not* leaving," he emphasized, shuffling on his knees across the mattress to cradle   
Squall down to lie beside him atop the rumpled sheets; it was a mark of the depth of the   
Commander's distress that he didn't even mutter an objection to being manhandled.   
Irvine curled them into a fetal position, arms wrapped around Squall with the smaller   
man's head tucked under his chin, trying to convey every nuance of his devotion to his   
wounded companion. "Never leaving."  
  
"Irvine," Squall said, something like desperation almost breaking free. "I . . ."  
  
He couldn't continue; Irvine just tightened his hold.  
  
"I know," he said. "I know."  
  
"You said everything has its time, but . . . Was it her time, Irvine? Ultemecia's dead.   
Does that mean its my time, too?"  
  
"No!" Irvine denied immediately. "Defeating that bitch from the future was *not* your   
life's work, I don't care *what* anyone else has said, or implied, or even fucking   
*thought*, do you hear me? That was *not* all you're here for, Squall."  
  
"Then what?" Squall asked, lips brushing the delicate skin of Irvine's neck. Shiva   
stirred within him, a stern reminder. "Then what am I here for?"  
  
Irvine laughed helplessly. "I don't know. That's the fucking point! Rinoa was *wrong*,   
Squall, she was *wrong* to end it like that. Who knows what more she would have   
done? Who knows what else there could have been for her? And now it's gone. For   
what?"  
  
"She's at peace," Squall interjected quietly, worrying at his lower lip.  
  
"Yeah, and you know what peace is? Boring." Irvine hugged Squall a bit tighter, trying   
to force the feelings into him. "You've been alone all your life, *safe*, but wasn't that   
the illusion? Didn't the final battle prove that friendship is important?"  
  
"Canon fodder," Squall said brokenly.  
  
"We're alive, Squall," Irvine insisted. "We all made it out."  
  
"My fault we were there, my fault she died."  
  
"Squall, we were there to save the *world*, not just for you. And Rinoa . . ." Irvine   
sighed, hoping for another sudden burst of inspiration. "I'm sure she had her reasons.   
But can't you see that her solution is just too . . .final? Everything passes, Squall, even   
heartbreak."  
  
"How can you know that? How can you be so sure?"  
  
"I never tried to run away from my past," Irvine said softly. "I didn't try to forget like the   
rest of you. I just let it all flow through me and away. And you know what?"  
  
Squall turned his face aside, eyes flinching shut as he couldn't answer.  
  
"The pain left, eventually. It hurt, and there were a few nights when I thought about   
ending the cycle, but it passed. And I kept the memories, Squall. The memory of our   
childhood, the good and the bad."  
  
"So . . . let everything go? Don't let anything affect you?"  
  
"Oh, it'll affect you," Irvine said, smiling grimly into the scattered, sweat-soaked hair.   
"I told you, Squall, it hurts something awful. But time goes on. The hurt fades, like a   
wound scarring over and only aching when it rains."  
  
"I don't . . . I don't want to let her go."  
  
A tear touched heated flesh. Irvine stilled, careful, feeling a breath of awe deep   
beneath his heart.  
  
"You have to, Squally-boy," Irvine murmured. "Can't stay a dog with a bone forever."  
  
A sad chuckle pressed into his flesh.  
  
"I just . . ." Squall began, appearing to be at a loss for words. Irvine stroked him gently.   
  
"I know," Irvine said, abandoning logic as Squall's shoulders began to heave with   
suppressed sobs. "I know. It'll be okay." Meaningless words. Sometimes it all   
comes down to meaningless words, nothing more.  
  
"When?" Squall asked thickly.  
  
"In time," Irvine repeated, using the words as a mantra. "All in its time."  
  
"It hurts," Squall said, softly, like a guilty admission. Irvine hugged him closer for that.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Thank you." Barely a whisper, as though the words were torn from him. Coming from   
Squall, this was as good as a declaration of love.  
  
"Told you I'm not going anywhere," Irvine said. "Not leaving. Never again."  
***  
  
A/N Whew! If that wasn't an emotional roller coaster and a half! :) Okay, there  
was a bit more Hamlet, and apparently Irvine's philosophy bears a great deal  
of resemblence to Buddhism. Thanks to Scribblemoose for pointing that out. :)  
Both the chapter title and the subtitle were taken from silverchair's Diorama  
album, from "Too Much Of Not Enough" and "My Favourite Thing", respectively. 


End file.
